


Extraordinary People are Adorable

by ChurchillSaidSo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChurchillSaidSo/pseuds/ChurchillSaidSo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time after the events of RF, a bored James Moriarty meets a young woman who catches his eye and intrigues his brain. What's the secret she carries that could blow the mind of a criminal mastermind? Moriarty/OC. T for early chapters, M for subsequent ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elle Daniels

Elizabeth "Elle" Daniels was a girl who worked for her living. It wasn't a situation she was used to or had particularly craved when she left home a year ago, but she was full of energy. She liked to keep busy.  
So far, she had had moderate success for the goal of keeping herself occupied. She had been working as a secretary for the past six months or so in the office of a lawyer just outside London, but found the position lacking for her skill set. Her boss, all too aware of her restlessness, had been willing to up her pay by nearly fifty percent with benefits to persuade her to stay, but as she had kindly informed him, it was not the pay that disinterested her. It was the ever present, looming threat of becoming bored. Her tasks at the firm were too simple, too blase.  
Her boss let her go reluctantly. He could recognize that she didn't quite belong. She was the diamond among the men and women of her surroundings. Not quite a "diamond in the rough", as is so charming and quaint in the films and novels of the past two centuries. No, she had been cleanly cut and elegantly polished without losing any of what her father called 'feminine virtues'.  
~  
On her last Friday evening, Elizabeth Daniels, twenty-four, sat typing at her computer at her usual break-neck pace- she had quick fingers. When the report was typed up she paused to sift through papers and find the last one of the day. When she did she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up.  
A paper cup, steaming with vapor and just giving the scent of nutmeg license to tease her nose, was being offered to her. With a beaming smile, she accepted the coffee from her almost-ex-boss, teasing gently,  
"I hope you're not trying to entice me to stay with spiced lattes now, are you Mr. Briggs?"  
The lawyer smiled fondly, folding gray crinkles around his eyes pleasantly. "Perhaps I am. We'll miss you around here, Elle. Just about done?"  
"Yes- I'm about to finish up the files on the Woods account." She took a little sip of latte and smiled. Mr. Briggs had become rather like a paternal uncle as of late, but she preferred to stay well within the bounds of professionalism. "Can I do anything else for you, sir?"  
"Why, yes. Come and see me when you're done. Don't feel like you have to finish up- leave something for the new girl to do tomorrow." He smiled amicably and continued towards his office, coffee cup in hand.  
It was short work on the Woods account- they were one of the biggest files Mr. Briggs had on record, and to Elle the entire family had become familiar faces, though she doubted any of them recognized her- she was just the secretary. Just now the family patriarch was putting the finishing touches on his will- nothing terribly exciting.  
But it brought to mind nagging memories of her own family.  
She winced. No. She wasn't going to ponder over that today. Not on her last day of work.  
She finished typing up the details of the will, printed them out, and put them away in the Woods family file. Then she saved the file, shut down the computer, shrugged on her coat, picked up her purse and coffee, and went to see Mr. Briggs.  
He answered with a friendly, "Come in!" at her polite knock.  
"Elle." He smiled. He actually stood up, to her surprise. He had never done so, as if she were anybody of importance.  
She accepted the hands being extended to her and smiled hesitantly as Mr. Briggs shook them.  
"You've been such a great help this past year, m'dear. Now, I want you to tell me, in an appropriate reversal of roles, is there anything I can do for you?"  
"For me?" She asked in surprise.  
"Yes." The old lawyer gestured that she sit, and proceeded to do the same. "You've said you wanted to move into London. That's what I did, when I was young. As you can see, I've hardly left."  
"Yes, sir. I've already secured a flat. I think the change of pace will do me good."  
"What about a job?" Briggs asked, opening the lid on his coffee and waving some of the steam away. "Have you managed one yet?"  
Elle pursed her lips, dissatisfied with her answer. "No, not yet. I have interviews Thursday and Friday next week for office work."  
Briggs psh'awed lightly. "Office work! Forgive me, Elle, but I believe you can do better. There's no doubt you would get offers from both of your applications- but hear what I have to say."  
The young woman blinked in minute surprise, but nodded with interest. It was one of the things the gentleman liked about the young secretary. While intelligent and clever, she was always listening for new ideas, new information.  
It was why she was perfect for the postion mentioned to him last week at his monthly gentlemen's club. His friend needed a girl like Elizabeth Daniels more than he ever knew- Lord knew Briggs was sorry to lose her.  
He explained simply, "An old friend of mine works in the heart of London for the British government. At a meeting last week he mentioned to me that he had had to let an assistant of his go, and that he was hard pressed to find another."  
"What branch of government?" Elle asked curiously.  
Briggs waved his hand fleetingly- dodging her question. "He has his fingers in all sorts of pies. The point is, I believe you'd be perfect for the job. You could work yourself up the ladder and be quite well off in a few years. I hate to see intelligence and wit like yours go to waste, Elle. Tell me you'll humor your old boss- will you consider it?"  
"I don't believe you'll ever let me forget it if I don't." Elle laughed. "I'll look into it. Who shall I call? Who is your friend?"  
"I knew you'd say yes." Briggs clapped his hands gleefully and began to write an address down on a piece of parchment with energy. "I've already spoken to him. You've got an interview on Wednesday, four-thirty."  
"With?" Elle prompted, standing and taking the paper.  
"Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Make sure you make a good impression, Ms. Daniels. First impressions are everything."


	2. A Clean Slate

Elle left her interview with Mycroft Holmes that Wednesday with a chest full of hope, but a clear head. It was entirely probable that she would get the postion- she had met every requirement- all that was lacking in her resumé at this point was experience- and she had the good word of Mr. Briggs to support her.  
Mr. Holmes, dry, exact, sarcastic and unaffectionate, had ended the interview with a polite handshake and the promise of a call within the week to inform her of his decision. But she was hopeful. She had seen the spark of intrigue in his eyes.  
She left the building just as calm and collected as she had entered it. Her black sheath dress was ideal for the end of the summer's dull, throbbing heat. Her blonde, wavy hair was seemingly unaffected and unfrizzed, pinned up in a becoming way as it was. She had attracted the silent glances of a number of the elderly gentlemen in the lobby where she waited for her appointment but paid them no mind.  
She had only realized minutes into the interview that the job title given to her by Mr. Briggs was inaccurate. She had assumed she would be another secretary in another office, and therefore had not given the weight of the interview much thought. Personal assistant or aide would be better, she thought, when halfway through their meeting her potential tasks were explained to her.  
"I'm quite sure I can do all of this and more, Mr. Holmes." she had said to him honestly, scanning the printed sheet he had given her. They were all duties she had fulfulled for Mr. Briggs at some point or another, though none of them could quite be classified as secretarial.  
She looked up with a slightly questioning smile, knowing now that this interview was now all-important. "May I ask how many have applied for the position?"  
"A handful of candidates have come to me from within the outer offices, all sniffing to advance themselves. You, Miss Daniels, are the only outsider applying."  
"That applies to your benefit, I suppose." Elle said reasonably. "I come with no alibis, no reservations, no prejudices. Could you do with a clean slate, Mr. Holmes?"  
"Couldn't we all?" he responded dryly, to which she had smiled.  
Now, as she stood waiting to hail a cab, nobody looking out into the street would have guessed how much her heeled shoes pained her, the easy, logical thoughts going through her mind, or in reality how much she was depending on getting this job.  
She had been born and raised much richer than she was at the current moment. She had had to sell her suburban car to pay the down payment on her new flat. This was no matter, she thought, raising her hand with a practiced air to slow the cab wandering down the street. If she got the job, she would be comfortably settled indeed. And there was always public transportation. She held no qualms about that.  
She did not know, but might have guessed she was being watched, if her mind hadn't been occupied. Her intention to make a good first impression had not gone unnoticed.  
Mycroft Holmes watched her hail the cab from behind his office curtains and felt a stab of something like pity. She was young. Questionably young to become involved in his affairs. Especially as a personal assistant.  
His phone chimed quietly from his pocket. He fished it out and answered it with half a smile. Briggs was an old friend of his, besides being a useful business partner to have. They shared a mutual respect.  
"Impeccable timing, as usual, William." he greeted.  
"Will you have her?" came the lawyer's fruity voice immediately. "She is certainly qualified. Best you have so far, I imagine."  
"Too young. Inexperienced." Mycroft said promptly, returning to his desk. "Too green for this office."  
"That might prove useful." Briggs said. "She has no loyalties that tie her to anything."  
Mycroft snorted, shuffling absent-mindedly through her resumé. "What about her past? Anything significant?"  
"Not that I could find. You're better on that front than I am, old friend. I believe there's something strange about her, but as it never interfered with day-to-day business I never pursued it."  
The elder Holmes sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His friend, though fierce in the courtroom and jolly out of it, was faithfully unthorough in the minor details that Mycroft himself was so involved in. The girl could have any type of background, any at all, even if she had graduated cum laude from her university.  
"Give her a month, Mycroft. She won't have found anything important out by then, will she?"  
"I wonder that you are so invested in this young lady's fortunes, William." Mycroft commented, just slightly teasing. "Are you quite sure the relationship was all business?"  
"To hell with you, man. She's young enough to be my granddaughter." The lawyer chuckled.  
Mycroft decided. "We'll give it a few weeks, William, for your sake. At any rate I could stand some new blood."  
"That's the spirit." Briggs said cheerfully.  
Outside, unbeknownst to Mycroft or Elle, another set of eyes was watching the woman enter the taxi with interest. It was unusual a Holmes to hire a new face.  
James Moriarty, hidden well behind sunglasses and an overcoat across the street, watched the cab leave in a southerly direction, his brain idly working at the fresh information. If she was taking a taxi she had no car of her own. Yet to Jim, this was niggling. Her clothes, her reservedness, the manner in which she had descended the steps and hailed the cab- as if she owned the very pavement she tread on- appealed to him as someone with money, or who was used to money.  
This was interesting. Why would such a young woman with money to spare on fine clothes be applying to work for the underbelly of the government itself- Mycroft Holmes? Why also would such a woman take a cab?  
His nose curled in distaste. Dirty public spaces, taxicabs.  
The woman herself would have passed out of his mind and been forgotten, useless, except that he was not only here to gaze at passersby. He was searching for a fresh way to infiltrate Mycroft's offices- they were extraordinarily useful to have as sources.  
He could always hack into the servers. Child's play. But there was always the risk of being caught and traced. He wanted no inkling, no trace of even a remote, passing fantasy that he was alive and well and continuing to roam the streets of London.  
His mind lingered on the young woman. Perhaps he would just have to go about this the old-fashioned way.


	3. I'd Like to Try You On

She had been dozing, collapsed on her couch in her flat for some time when her mobile phone rang. Blearily she emerged from under the blanket, eyes still shut, searching for it with her fingers.

She didn't even want to answer it again. It's been a bad day. The first phone call of the day had tired her out amazingly and she didn't want to move. In the past all that bad days have entitled her to do have been just this: low music, the warmth of a blanket and the null of a quiet mind for hours and hours.

At least, she'd been hoping for a quiet mind. Today her psyche was not cooperating. The phone ringing for a second time had interrupted a train of thought she'd been pondering for a long while about her parents. She was still unable to come to terms with them logically- and this bothered her.

"Elle Daniels." she murmurs, smiling hard into the phone and letting the smile slide off and drop onto the floor immediately, as soon as its purpose was fulfilled.

"Miss Daniels." A dry voice immediately grabs her attention. She sits up abruptly, her clutch on the phone suddenly tight.

When she was in secondary school they completed a survey that wanted to know how children learned. When the results came back from the teacher she had not been surprised to learn that she was an auditory learner- everything that processed through her brain seemed to go through her ears, then her eyes. She was a good ear. She could recognize voices she had only heard once.

Remembering the papery, drawling and dry voice of Mycroft Holmes was not an intellectual exercise. She knew it was him. He didn't even need to provide the bored intonation of his name over the phone- she knew before the second word was out of his mouth.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked, in her excitement blurting out the first thing that came to mind, instinctually, "How can I help you?"

"By being in my office Monday morning promptly at 800 hours." Was the immediate and slightly pompous response. "I'd like to see how we work with one another. Does this suit you?"

"Wonderfully, sir. I look forward to working with you."

"Likewise. Until Monday then, Miss Daniels."

"Goodbye." She hung up and tossed the phone out in front of her, amused. It was only Friday and she had a job. She had the weekend ahead of her to finish cleaning and unpacking the flat, and then presumably an 8-to-4 Monday/Friday schedule. She liked those. They were neat and ordered. Some relief fell over her.

She looked into the box nearest her, renewed and cheered by the phone call. She got up, put on socks, and started unpacking again. The prospects of a new job, new flat, and a new life had put the first phone call out of her mind.

Nobody had power over her here. She must remember that. There was no one to dictate her life but Elle. She mustn't allow them to get her down.

* * *

The scene that greeted Mycroft Holmes on Monday morning at 8 o'clock was something of a surprise.

He had entered the building as usual to the nods of the other people there- the silence was usual. The stupor, too, was usual. It was Monday morning. One was allowed to be less-than-chipper. One was allowed to dither, just a little bit. Mycroft himself quite loathed Mondays.

Except somebody else didn't seem to. In fact, that someone was bustling around his office as if she'd been there for months- a rare occurence, these days, when all of his assistants seemed to flee after half a year. And she was organizing. Filing. As if she'd been taught where to look.

"Good morning, sir." Elle said cheerfully when he came in, but appropriately so. Not in the way of an over-eager intern going out of her way to please. An accustomed workwoman, rather, who knew her way around an office and was suiting it to her tastes. He was relieved to hear it. But it was surely too good to be true.

"Good morning, Miss Daniels." Mycroft said, slightly suspiciously. "Are you in the habit of keeping yourself busy? Or is this a happy grace period I will have reason to miss later on?"

"I insist on keeping busy at all times, Mr. Holmes." she replied. "Your tea is on your desk." She gestured with a well-groomed hand. "It's hot, but I didn't know how you preferred it."

Mycroft dropped his umbrella in the stand by the door and strode over to the desk to inspect the tea tray with curiosity. English breakfast tea, all in order. Sugar, lemon. He raised an eyebrow and decided to test his new assistant.

"Would this be milk or cream?" he asked lightly, settling behind the desk and beginning to add sugar.

The girl, to his vast amusement, had the breeding to look positively scandalized for a brief moment.

"Milk, of course-" she hesitated for a fraction of a second- "Unless you would prefer cream?"

"Certainly not." Mycroft assured her.

Both of them were satisfied. Elle was going over her clipboard, and added a note for her future benefit. While she was doing so, Mycroft peered at her approvingly.

They would work well together.

* * *

Over the course of the next few weeks, Elle settled comfortably into place in her new job, which gave her adequate amounts of necessary exertion which enabled her to sleep peacefully at night. This in itself was an extraordinary thing. She revelled in sleep during weekends, doing odd work in the sun by the window instead of frivoling, feeling assured in her success.

Part of the reason she got along so well with Mycroft was her thick skin- she knew better than to expect to be superpraised for work well done- after all, it was expected. She did not want coddling, nor immediate advancement. She was also immune to his sarcasm, and had even survived a number of encounters with the man while he was in a foul mood.

The other part was the odd, professional relationship they shared that was, to an outsider with a dull brain, strange and unbalanced.

Jim knew better than these people. He could see, just by watching, that the new girl was a gem that Mycroft Holmes could see for it's true worth. And be damned if he didn't intend to keep it close. It was enough to be getting on with. A little more patience, perhaps, and the time would be right. For now, he took to studying the girl at length:

Elle Daniels was clever, in her own way. She never spoke out of turn- indeed, rarely spoke in front of other people at all. But he could see sometimes, through the windows, that she spoke efficiently and often in the sole presence of Mycroft Holmes- perhaps when he asked for an opinion. Perhaps when he wanted reports. He couldn't be sure.

Jim glared at the glass of the office he had been haunting for the last few weeks with increased malice. What he wouldn't give for a bug. To be able to hear, at the very least, what exactly went on in the brain of the British government. For the elder Holmes was the computer data center that the government went to for assistance. The younger was the one the police had gone to, but no matter. _That_ problem had been efficiently squashed. He had bigger fish to fry nowadays.

In the glow of the orange sunset he watched the girl leave first, prepare to hail a taxi- she always left first. She and Mr. Holmes were careful to keep their relations professional, always.

He wasn't sure why- he would have charmed the little thing into his bed before now. She was a picture to look at. Quite a picture, actually. With impeccable dress sense.

Jim drew a finger over his lips lazily, leaning far back enough in his chair so that even if she chanced to look up, she shouldn't see him.

He couldn't be sure, of course, from this distance, but he could almost get the whiff of a Vivienne Westwood dress. High, glossy heels, too- maybe Prada. Such taste. So _expensive_. He clicked his tongue. It was admirable.

He hadn't bothered to look her up yet, this girl. He should, soon. He was tired of perhaps'es and maybe's. He wanted to be up close. And the girl was the key. And everybody knew what the keys got you.

Just then Jim leapt forward, shoving open the window quietly and backing into the shadows again, watching with new alertness that radiated off of him- every trace of former idleness gone.

As he suspected, the figure waddling down the steps was the man himself. With the window open, noise from the street drifted in. For a few moments, only cars and traffic.

Then, as he'd hoped, Holmes called out to his assistant, who turned to meet him with a smile,

"Elle! One last thing."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" Her voice was rich, swaying- like music, Jim thought absently. His eyes narrowed and closed, listening, hidden in the corner of the dim, abandoned office.

"Elle, do you have any plans for the coming Friday?" Mycroft's voice asked lazily. Jim could hear the pompous smile and resisted the temptation to roll his eyes under the lids. Was the dolt finally going to move in on her? About time. The girl's musical voice chimed out again,

"Nothing of importance, Mr. Holmes. Just work." And didn't she sound content about it? You would have thought her work was dancing naked in the park and being paid for it.

"Then I wonder how much more work you could stand to please the demands of a selfish old statesman- namely, me."

"Probably much more, sir."

"Splendid. How would you feel about going in my place to a gala this Friday evening? You need only represent yours truly. I have other engagements more pressing than socialite parties."

"Happy to, sir." The girl's voice took on an amused quality. She was not teasing- but the smile was in her voice. "I'm not sure you've made it clear that this is _work_ we're speaking of?"

"Rest assured that you may frolick as you like, young woman. If it does not please you you may take your leave after an hour or two." Holmes' tone had turned teasing; "However, I do beg you keep my delicate position in mind."

"Of course. Where is it?"

Jim shifted closer to the window.

"The Savoy. 7 o' clock. Formal attire."

"How elegant." Privately, Jim agreed- but was impressed that the young woman did not sound notably impressed. Elle's voice continued, "Will you be needing a report on it, sir?"

He prayed down below for a no. Plans were calculating themselves neatly in his brain. Oh, this would do nicely. Very nicely, indeed.

"A brief oral summary Monday morning will do fine, Miss Daniels. I do believe your taxi is waiting."

Jim turned carefully, watching Mycroft wave little Elle into her cab. The politician climbed into his own car and was driven away in the opposite direction.

The mastermind grinned, satisfied. You had to appreciate the neatness of the thing. He couldn't have asked for the chance at Elle Daniels any better if she'd been served to him on a silver platter.

Swiftly he turned on his heel and sped from the room- he was glad he need not return to it. On his way down the stairs he began to text Sebastian- he had plans for Friday night. He wanted a clear path.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Author's Notes:  
> Traditionally, tea is served with milk, not cream. There are such things called 'cream teas', or Devonshire teas- but this is actually a small meal comprised of tea and scones with jam and clotted cream. You're perfectly free to put cream in tea if you like it that way, but faithful tea-drinkers might turn up their noses! By asking whether there is milk or cream on the tea tray, Mycroft is examining Elle's traditionalism and British breeding. And maybe poking fun at her intelligence, just a little bit. :)  
> This has been a note from the author, who coincidentally takes reviews with her tea.


	4. Mischief, Mind Games

It was six-fifty.   
Jim waded through the throngs of the London scene, the elite set of the city, with a quote from some obscure novel rattling around in his head. He was bored- he hadn't seen Mycroft's secretary yet. He was amusing himself with both the absurdity of the busily chatting people in the room- even with money people just didn't know how to tastefully arrange themselves- and with his own musing thoughts.   
"Not by wrath does one kill, but by laughter."   
He was hidden in plain sight with his tux- nobody turned a second eye to him. They were too concerned with their politics, their gowns and gossip. For tonight, he didn't mind their mindless chatter.   
Richard Brook had been a fantastically dramatic ploy in his game with Sherlock Holmes. The trouble was that the idiot reporter had leaked his picture into the very article that had sparked the fire that would burn Sherlock's good name. She'd been swiftly taken care of and corrected, but still, the damage was done and the imperfection annoyed him. It was probable that no one would recognize him- even if they did, no matter- Richard Brook was harmless, pathetic, disposable.   
He turned his thoughts back to the words he was musing on at the moment. Nietzsche probably hadn't meant it the way Jim liked to think of it- but either interpretation worked. Literally or metaphorically, killing by laughter was much more fun. Satisfied his tendency to weave complex webs to lead his victim straight into his hands of his own stupid accord, more often than not. He liked cases like that- those that required more than a cursory glance, that demanded attention and detail and could wholly consume him and keep him firmly, if not precariously grounded in this dirty, overpopulated city that nevertheless he was attracted to for its vivacity. Its dark blood, its rich, delicious history.  
His work as a "consulting criminal"- maybe he liked that phrase after all- is the only thing that historically has kept him sane. His brain is at least mildly challenged and occupied by the requests of his clientele. But otherwise he's always thinking, brooding, mulling over things, reworking things inside his own head for hours until if he doesn't get a client he's going to snap, splinter and shatter into innumberable pieces and dissolve into the fabric of the universe for days and wake up in a bathtub of ice and blood (his?) ruining his suit. Again. He never did figure out what had happened, exactly. Needless to say, it was unpleasant to lose control of himself like that. Nothing quelled the fires, however, but working. He's just got to be patient.  
Anyway, Jim's not going to just kill somebody (at least, somebody of importance in his schedule) the second they trip over his path. True, he's going to make life a hell for them until they get out of the way, but he's not one to rush things. He's got time. He feels the assuring quality of forever within him at all times- the infinity of the universe is embedded in his very skin. He's not going to overreact if the situation doesn't call for it. He can afford to toy.  
As of late, though, his cases are boring. Ordinary people cutting under the law to get an easier slice of the world for themselves. Some of them want favors. Sure, he can do that. Easy-peasy. A quick killing here, a signed document there. Cases that are easily signed and sealed and finished by teatime. Docile, most of them. But then again, some of them want power. Jim rejects those cases with annoyance and contempt- perhaps even disapproval. He doesn't ladle out success. There are no freebies in the world of gaining power and keeping it. He knows it well.  
He's going to implode into himself if he's not properly engaged in something soon, though. It's why he's circling cautiously around Mycroft Holmes- the buffoon had an intellect that could surpass even the memory of his brother's- but he didn't do anything with it. Played nanny for Parliament- Mycroft Poppins. Neither could he be nettled into doing anything interesting- not even Sherlock's death had urged the man out of his neat little government hole. It was an everlasting pity.  
Still, while Mycroft was no fun to play with, and not worth the trouble of exterminating, he might prove to be useful, anyway. After all, the things he knew- the information that must be stuffed up in that old brain of his- that was precious stuff. No need to rid of it. There was valuable intelligence there.  
The only (minor) trouble was getting to it. Right now the only available outlet was somebody on the inside of the office- Elle Daniels was simply the girl of the moment. If she intrigued Mycroft enough to hire her, she might be interesting enough to tolerate talking to for a short time. Long enough to find a nice little handle to grip and twist when he needed.   
She would give in. Cave. All of them caved. All of them had something to hold on to, manipulate effectively. Especially, unfortunately, young women. It was another pity among many, he thought. He would have respected the other sex a lot more if more of them had the incentive to steel themselves against the superfluous things that feelings were. Even Adler had crumbled under the gaze of an intelligence of a man greater than hers. And she had been so close. So close, only to give it all away.  
Jim scowled for a second, but quickly brushed it away. The room was nearly full, now. Still no sign of the girl. Perhaps he would get a drink while he waited. She was going to show, surely- he's hardly seen someone so young so happily married to her work. He smirked at the floor, glancing this way and that. Never mind. He's cracked harder nuts.   
He ordered a scotch on the rocks and nursed it disinterestedly, continuing to scan the crowd. Unlike many of them, he's not here to get positively smashed- he's working tonight and only wants something to do with his hands while he waits alone with his thoughts.  
He was beginning to accept that precious few people in the world held any promise of actual genius. People like Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, like Irene Adler and James Moriarty were few and far between. They had simply attracted each other by weight of their intelligence and ambition, that was all. The reality was that actual genius was rare. Applied genius even rarer. It just didn't happen anymore in this age of instantaneous action, reaction, impulse, need-and-fulfillment- this technological world. Genius had to be nurtured, tended, grown with care over a lifetime. It was hardly going to happen anymore. He was one of the last of a dying race.  
He frowned. Shook himself. No need to be getting sentimental. After all, he wasn't here to muse. He was here to work.   
Where was the brat, anyway? He detested lateness. He glanced moodily at a grandfather clock as it began to chime the hour over the din of more and more people filing in, laughing, chinking glasses together. The lights were bright enough to illuminate the dullest of old faces and make the youngest among them glow with shiny, fake glitter. So concerned with appearance, seemingly. And yet how silly, how stupid, how ridiculous they all were to him.  
On the seventh and final chime of the hour, he caught a glance of a blonde head- younger, smaller than the others, swept up and braided elegantly. But it wasn't the color of the head that had attracted him, though it was a blonde that simply had to be bottled, for all it's pale glimmer. No, it was the way the head was held, the crown high and the forehead low. Shoulders back, spine straight. A perfect outlined sketch of grace, elegance.  
Jim blinked in dull surprise. Couldn't possibly be her, could it? He can appreciate beauty, sometimes. For the most part though, it's useless. Impractical. He doesn't know why he suddenly cannot look away.  
It is her, he accepts, the secretary, after shaking himself. But no more in her professional dresses and neat buns. Instead she is wandering here and there, face to face, smiling, shaking hands and taking names in a knee length, sleeveless sheath gown of the most scandalous red, slim enough to show the curve of narrow hips, slender, pretty legs. But modest. A party dress for a woman who has no intention of enjoying herself. He suspects this immediately. The red is only an attraction- a tool to be noticed when she wants to be noticed. He certainly has.   
He sits down on a stool to wait. She does not intend to stay long- but then, why disturb her work? She's already being passed around, introduced to greasy politicians and papery thin, dry old men with large shares in oil wells and car companies. He sips his scotch. He'll let her wear herself out a little. Let himself gather his strange thoughts.  
But she is not beautiful, he admonishes himself. No, not so. She has all the regular features in the correct places- but there is not beauty there. Her eyes are too big and her makeup too muted to really call her beautiful. She is too understated, too young in this high end barroom of orange skin and surgically corrected beauty to be among their ranks. She is too carefully arranged, too sharp to be called beautiful, though he supposes many people would say so.  
No, she exuded gracefulness. Yes, that was it. Elegance, poise. He might have thought it before, watching her hail taxis with the command of one hailing a chariot- but now it was splendidly obvious. She never faltered a step. Her smile was charming, not flirtacious. There was no false laughter, no affected touches. He could not hear her voice from here, but saw that she was not really speaking anyway- merely listening. Representing Mycroft dutifully by appearance, not word. Prudent.  
At any rate, she was charming and at least has some degree of common sense. He's not going to have to dumb himself down for this one- thank God. All it will take is a little charm- and Jim's got loads. Best not to lather it on too thick, though. She might not be a politician herself, but she's handling Mycroft's comrades so easily that she will see through an elaborate facade in moments.  
The minutes passed quickly. She never wandered far from the bar, so Jim remained there with his watery scotch, watching as surreptitiously as possible. He couldn't turn his stool completely around to watch her at every moment and attract her attention- which was annoying, because she kept revolving around the different cliques, exchanging conversation with different parties for different amounts of time. She wasn't just good at her job, he realized. She was ferociously tenacious at it.  
Slightly uncomfortably, he also realized he would essentially be better off being himself when his moment came. This unsettled him a little. He simply was not used to doing that- not with strangers involved in his schemes. Their jobs were to be his pawns- whether he got to be the king or the queen or the bishop, knight, or rook depended on the day. He was used to acting, quite liked acting. But tonight was the first time in a long while that it was going to be ineffecient for his purpose. There was no face he could construct that would serve to lure Elle Daniels into place as well as his own.   
Within the constraints of an hour and a half, the girl completed her purpose to the best degree. At any rate, he's been watching her sip the same glass of wine, being increasingly giggled at, toyed and flirted with by the few crusty gents that even remain- many have left the political scene to cavort at the other bar, dance with their mistresses and congratulate each other over cigars at their immense, universal successes. He hates these parties.  
Finally, after a good quarter of an hour spent detangling herself from the clutches of a miserly, retired old statesman who was completely convinced that the little woman was his first wife ("Run off again, did you Gracie? Is bad matters, that is!") Elle retreated to the very place he wanted her to be- the bar.  
The moment she came within a foot of them, the barman appeared on the other side of the counter, smiling questioningly, his white suit horribly tailored, but at least respectably silent.  
"I'll have a French 75, if you please." she said, her rich voice sheer politeness. Cool, calm, collected. But her expression suggested otherwise- lips pursed tight, hands clutched tightly around her clutch purse. Stress signals.   
"Would that be with gin or cognac, madam?" The barman asked, hands beginning to fly with accustomed skill.  
"Cognac, naturally. Thank you."  
Jim raises an eyebrow and comments into his scotch glass, "Bit of a traditionalist, then? Some people prefer it with gin."   
For the first time, she lights her eyes upon him, and he actually smiles when he looks up to meet them. They are sharp, testing eyes, not willing to put up with anything even close to resembling crap. Grey and clever, they are like pieces of ice in her pale, heart-shaped face and seem willing to pick to the center of him to search out his intentions. But he is comfortable in that she never will. No one does. He remains smiling.   
After a moment, perhaps appraising him, she offers a tiny, politely disinterested smile, and says thoughtfully, "I suppose I am." Her eyes track the barman as he shakes her drink vigorously and begins to pour it out. Jim continues,  
"They say an American fight pilot wanted more kick than simple champagne could give. So he added cognac, lemon, and sugar. And they say it resembles a French 75 millimeter artillery piece- the kick, that is."  
The barman set the champagne tulip in front of the girl, and Jim flipped a bill from his pocket and slipped it over the counter before Elle could even fish through her opened clutch.  
She watched the exchange with raised eyebrows, pursed her lips for a fraction of a second, but then smiled in an amused way, popping the clutch shut again. She raised the glass to her lips, smiling lightly. "I hope you don't suppose I'm going to make polite conversation just because you've bought me a drink?"   
Jim shrugged. "I was hoping so. I'm sure I make better conversation than your elderly friend." He nodded towards the slumped, passed out figure of the man she had just escaped, who was snoring peacefully in an armchair.  
Elle grimaced. "I certainly hope so." She took a sip of her drink and let out a little laugh. "You're right, about the French artillery. I love a cocktail with a heady background. Affects the taste."  
"Does it?" He found himself smiling again.  
She hummed in assent, but seemed content to remain silent, mulling over her drink. Well, he couldn't have that.  
"Your boss will be pleased with you. You made the rounds much more quickly than anyone else." He gestured with a hand around the emptying room- the American bar was becoming the hit of the night. "Every head accounted for within an hour. Well done."  
"Who says I have a boss?" she smiled coyly, but refused to look up. She had yet to even touch the bar or sit down. He was going to lose her unless he could hook in soon.  
"I've seen every face here a dozen times over- but not yours. No, you're here for somebody else. New blood, fresh face." He took a drink from his warmed scotch and grimaced. "It's quite refreshing, actually. Ever since that brother of his-" he made a vague, slicing gesture- "Mycroft Holmes has been notoriously hard to get along with." He allowed a little smirk to rise over his drink. "How are you faring?"  
A little pink popped her cheeks into new relief. She laughed quietly, just a little, as though surprised, and chiding herself for being so.  
"I didn't realize you were a politician."   
"I'm not." He extended a hand. "Richard Brook."  
A tiny flickering of recognition. Perhaps she knew the name. Perhaps she was even now dismissing it. It was common. Unlike him. But he'd caught her interest.  
She reached to shake his hand, smiling. A little squeeze. "Elizabeth Daniels."  
He pressed her cool fingers to his lips briefly and grinned. He liked Elizabeth better. Yet something niggled at him. The name. Where had he heard it?  
"That name belongs in films. If not, within the pages of a novel."  
"Oh, either would be lovely, if only it were true." She smiled, but wearily. He has cracked her certainty with the flirting. She doesn't know what to make of him.  
Jim rose from his stool lanquidly. Upright he was just tall enough to glance down and catch the top of her head with his chin, though she wore heels. He made a little bow. Dramatics were a part of his style.   
"Elizabeth Daniels, I'm about to ask a very serious question, the answer to which may determine the nature of our newly inducted acquaintance."  
The good thing was, she smiled over her drink. The bad was that she had to go and be witty about it. "Yes, Mr. Darcy, what is it?"  
Teasing? Oh no no, she would learn to drop that very quickly. It bristled him, but he wasn't about to admit that he liked it. No, never.   
Nobody challenged him. Especially not clever, suspicious secretaries.  
He paused pointedly and glanced at the french double doors leading to an outside patio, slipping his hands into his pockets and turning up a boyish, crooked grin chocked full of charm. "Quit work for tonight, won't you? Join me outside. Have a cigarette. You ought to relax."  
Her lips twitched, and she giggled suddenly, as though this suggestion were ludricious. At his raised eyebrows, she shook her head apologetically and said,  
"I don't mean to laugh at you, Richard, but it's just that..." She shrugged white, bare shoulders, smiling somberly, "If you knew me, you'd know that I don't relax. Hardly ever, anyway. It's not my nature." She turned up smiling eyes- the wonders of a freshly tailored tux never failed- "But I would love to pilfer a cigarette from you."  
Jim grinned. He left his drink on the table and stepped to open the doors and gesture that she go through.  
Outside the night was warm enough- though it was impossible to see any stars. The light pollution of London was enough to warrant it, though- she was her own star.  
So too did Elle Daniels seem to shine. Her wheat colored hair and pale skin contrasted well with the deep red of her dress and the dark of the night. She leaned against the marble railing, palms resting on the surface gently, and he was reminded of a painting he had seen somewhere, some time ago.   
He scowled at himself and forcibly shoved all further thoughts of art and beauty out of his head. Working.  
Leisurely taking the carton of cigarettes, he slid one out and leaned back against the railing, offering it to her. She took it in the space of only a couple of seconds, but out of habit, Jim took note of everything- left-handed, noticeable writing callus, this in spite of carefully smoothed and shaped nails- neither were any of her fingers yellow- not a regular smoker. She also brushed her fingers deliberately across his palm before she took it.  
She put the cigarette to her lips and let him light it for her without a second glance. She took in a deep lungful of air that might have been a little reverent, for a simple cigarette- her exhale was more controlled. A deep, grey cloud of smoke courteously aimed away from him. His eyes were drawn to her lips, pink and supple, and her throat, her throat. He could just see his fingers around it, dragging choked screams from it, eliciting cries, extinguisting her little life like a flame from a candle.   
Elle turned her head as though in response to his thoughts. She stretched her lips up as one would stretch one's limbs after long, deep sleep- slowly, sensuously, satisfied. His fingers twitched. He'd like to flay her alive and smile as he did it, if only to wipe that collected expression off her face.  
Jim quickly lit his own cigarette, damning her quietly. His mother would have loved her, forgiving the cigarette. In fact, outwardly she seemed just the woman his mother would have liked- and yet he suspected- felt he knew- that the cool exterior was shielding something just out of view. Secret, dirty, and mischevious. He decided right that moment he would find it out. Call it a side note on the way to Mycroft Holmes. He could afford it.  
Besides, if Elle Daniels had to die someday, she was going to do it with her little secret on her lips and his fingers around her pretty windpipe.  
So he smiled around his cancer stick and asked, "How do you like your coffee? Tea?"  
"Black. One sugar. Either of them. Why?" She flicked off ashes from her cigarette delicately, crushed it, and fixed him with that piercing grey stare again.  
"I have a feeling you'll be needing it tomorrow morning."  
Elizabeth's response was to reach over and slide one cool hand gently up his chest, under his jacket, and slip the other one into his pocket. In a voice that was all innocence, she asked, "Do you think you'll have the opportunity to use that information?"  
Jim smirked. "Yes. I do." He had all the opportunity in the world. The way she was looking at him begged multiple opportunities, starting tonight.  
Elle smiled, leaning forward and pressing her palm into his chest as he leaned down to kiss her, slow and easy. Her mouth was much different than her cool skin- it was an electrical impulse, waiting to be set aflame. He'd never thought of himself as much of an arson, for all his other impulses, but then again...  
She pulled back, biting her smirking lips in a way that ought to be illegal just so that he can do it to her, and slid out of his arms and back onto her heels.  
Some of the mischief he'd suspected earlier displayed itself on her smug smile as she brought his forgotten cigarette to her lips and started to walk away, singing quietly,  
"No you won't, dear!"


	5. Two Can Play

Stupid building. Stupid steps. Stupid corridor.  
He hated this office building, and every grimy dirt hole of an office in it.  
He hated the weather, which was dismal and grey and couldn't decide whether to rain or not, and which had been the second thing to put him out of temper that day.  
The first had been Elle Daniels.  
Jim tore off his scarf and overcoat, shoving his sunglasses into the pocket and dropping sulkily behind the waiting desk, damning the girl.  
It wasn't the snarky bit with the kiss and the cigarette that irritated him. Nah. On the contrary, after blowing up with pride for a few seconds he had let it go. Laughed. It was adorable, her snubbing. He quite liked her pluck- few people outside Seb had the guts to stand up to him- it was sweet.  
No, what bothered him was that he had underestimated her. He had thought her clever, certainly, as well as tenacious and motivated. Admirable qualities, but so blasé. So ordinary, these days. Every young workwoman worked herself to death to put on the appearance of perfection- a mask to earn the better job, the better salary, the better man. The real thing though- a clever woman with her prize in mind, was hard to find.  
Except he seemed to have stumbled upon one such a woman. While her rejection amused him, it had also ruffled a feather. Maybe two. But no matter- she'd soon know who she was dealing with.  
It was five of four. In another fifteen minutes or so, he would walk back down the steps again and meet the little brat across the street and try again.  
Despite himself she was catching his interest. He had finally taken the trouble to look her up- Elizabeth Daniels- and there had been nothing there. Not a jot. Some rubbish about her work for one of Mycroft's brown-nosing lawyers on his website, not yet updated. An address across town. And that was it. No birth certificate, no parents, no background, no university, no history. Nothing.  
Three or four ideas were jostling around in his head, but the top one was that she was obviously lying about her name. Elle Daniels was a fiction, not to be believed.  
Jim tutted quietly, watching the window begin to collect droplets from the damp air outside. More and more questions to be answered. A nice little puzzle. It was going to take longer than he'd hoped to infiltrate Holmes' offices, but no matter.  
After all, he really could do with a distraction.  
~~~  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."  
Mycroft afforded her a glance and a sarcastic smile, which for a busy man like him was a gift. "Good afternoon, Miss Daniels." He continued writing at his desk, which let Elle know in no uncertain terms that her boss would continue to work into the latter hours of the night.  
Elle left the office with a peaceable mind; Mycroft would call her if she was needed. It was not a question that her mobile- recently greatly upgraded at the cost of Mycroft himself- would be charged, on, and set to full volume. Mycroft Holmes never texted if he could call, and if he called, she was expected to be ready to answer that call, whenever it came.  
She accepted the tart nod of the evening secretary- the one devoted to keeping an eye on the tedious filing and organizing that had been her old job- and continued out onto the sidewalk, nose buried in her emails. She stood on the sidewalk in her usual place, waiting for the taxi under the protection of a black umbrella, when-  
"We meet again, Elizabeth Daniels?"  
She gasped. That voice. A voice that sent a shard of ice into her heart and inexplicable quivers into her knees as well as a hard-wired chemical route to her brain- it brought her back to earth with a painful tug. She turned, knowing and yet praying that it wouldn't be the face she expected to find-  
It was. Her dashed-but-dashing suitor from the other night at the Savoy. She put on a hard, grimacing smile while her thoughts scurried around for order.  
"Richard Brook. Imagine meeting you here."  
He grinned sort of lazily, like a cat, showing all his white teeth- or perhaps like a child hiding something naughty. He was no less done up than Friday night- and by no means less pretty in a well-tailored suit, perfectly coiffed dark hair, and posh shoes. Elle bit her lip. Get a hold of yourself, girl. Just because he can dress doesn't mean he can dance.  
"Imagine." he repeated, smiling as though what she'd said were funny. But then it hardened into something darker. Something familiar. For a moment, that wicked, cold smile froze her blood.  
"Shall we walk?" He suggested, all politeness. And yet, it seemed to her that to refuse was not an option that was exactly prudent. There was nothing whatsoever threatening about him- he'd not said a word out of place- but that smile... she knew it so well.  
She shivered, shaking herself out of a daze.   
"Yes," she said, offering a smile from under her umbrella. "I suppose we should."  
They ignored the oncoming taxi and began to walk down the road side-by-side, lone strollers in the late summer's London shower.  
"I hadn't expected to see you again." Elle prompted after a few moment's silence. She allowed herself a glance at him. What was he doing here? Here to call her out on the kiss? Walking out? Embarassing him?  
The man seemed to be stewing in his own thoughts, but at her words, he smiled again, mindless of the rain.  
"I could agree with you, except I was very intent on finding you."  
"You sought me out?" Elle stopped in her tracks.  
Richard Brook paused a step ahead, hands deep in his pockets.   
"How?" she demanded, close to angry but very carefully keeping it in check.  
She could see him pointedly waiting for her and knew that she would get no answers by standing here in the rain. She huffed quietly and fell into step beside him again, scowling at the ground.  
She could hear the grin in his voice as he replied easily,  
"I have contacts."  
"That's flattering." she said honestly. "And disturbing." She began walking more quickly, eager to leave him behind.  
"That's dedication-" He easily kept up with her longer strides, being just tall enough to do so without much effort- "You ought to know something about it. Coffee?"  
"I'd rather not. Thank you, Richard."  
"Why not?" He gave her a charming smile this time. "I know just how you like it."  
"That's why not." Elle snapped. "I should have thought one rejection good enough for anyone. Why do you persist?"  
"Oh, go on. Didn't I spark even a tiny flame of interest?"  
"No."  
"You're a clever liar, but I still don't believe you. You wouldn't have kissed me if you didn't want to, darling."  
She winced and kept her eyes rooted to the wet sidewalk. With difficulty, she ground out, "Fine. Interested? Yes, perhaps. I regret having to humiliate you and leave you standing there. But overall you left me disappointed. You thought you could run me away to bed and swagger out the next morning with a new conquest. I have better taste than that. I don't do one night stands."  
To her surprise, he grimaced- as though pained. "Why do you assume that's what I wanted?" he asked. "It's unwise to assume things, dear. Are you sure you don't want a coffee?" He gestured towards an approaching shop. "It's beginning to rain something dreadful."  
She was too annoyed to bother with his flirting, but found herself smiling in spite of herself. Ridiculous man, what was he even doing? "You may as well have told me plain as day and saved yourself the purchase of a drink."  
He opened the door of the coffee shop and waved her in, adding after her, "You never did thank me for that."  
For a few moments, their banter ceased as Richard leaned over the counter to order two teas. Not until he had delivered the warm cup into her hands did she smile and ask him sarcastically,  
"Suddenly you're Mr. Polite?"  
"No," Richard settled himself into one of the café tables and smirked when she followed suit. "That's not quite what they call me."  
She decided that after the purchase of a second drink, she ought to at least play along. When he paused she prodded him. "So what do they call you?"  
"You'll find out. If you like." He cast up an expectant glance.  
"Is that a proposal?"  
"Of a sort, perhaps. What do you say?"  
Suddenly, for a moment, she felt ridiculously as though instead of a bistro table flirting with a man, she was sitting behind a desk about to sign a document sealing her fate.  
She bit her lip hard for a few seconds, deciding. When she had, and when she looked up again, it was to find a heavy stare waiting for her. Brown eyes full of something promising- at the very least, interesting. If only she would agree.  
But as always, she found herself to be her father's daughter. Instead of answering a definitive "Yes!" (which was tempting) or a vehement "No!" (which was probably practical- who were Richard Brook's contacts, anyway?) she took a sip of her tea and asked pleasantly,  
"You know where I work. And from where our conversation left us on Friday you probably know what I do. What do you do, Richard?"  
Richard let out a honeyed laugh and a pleased smile. "I'm a private mediator. Sometimes I'm hired by a commercial client, but mostly people come to me on an individual basis. Please-will-you-fix-it-for-me-to... et cetera et cetera."  
"Really?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "So let me guess- you patch things up for... certain persons-" Both of them smiled- "And in return they slip you in to parties at the Savoy?"  
"Something along those lines. It's quite useful."  
"For what?"  
He waved a careless hand. "Meeting people. Pressing the flesh. Scouting out clients. Turning a pretty head." Rather than smile then, he seemed to be trying to stare her down- at least until her eyeballs collapsed into themselves or else she spontaneously combusted. She stared back, queerly fascinated.  
For a long time they were silent, staring off against one another. She wasn't sure if the stare was hot or cold or assessing or not, but before it ended, Richard said quietly,  
"I apologize. For being rude to you the other night. It was presumptuous of me. A woman like you doesn't deserve to be... toyed with."  
"Quite right." she said quietly. Then she smiled- a real smile, with warmth. "I might forgive you if you ask me to dinner."  
Something sparkled in his eyes- interest? Amusement?  
He leaned forward slowly. They still had not broken eye contact. "Elizabeth," he rolled her name off his tongue in a slightly thicker-than-normal Irish brogue that made her stomach heat up and curl up woozily, "Are you available Friday?"  
"I just so happen to be."  
"Dinner?"  
"Love to. Where and when?"  
"I'll pick you up. Seven o' clock?"  
"Perfect. I assume you're going to find out where I live?"  
"Naturally. There, then. Am I forgiven?"  
"I suppose, but you're off to a rather bad start, don't you think?"  
"No." Richard put the plastic cover over his empty tea cup, smirking. "You know what they say about third dates."  
She laughed. "Yes, the old rule. What they say. But what do you say?"  
"I say prepare yourself, darling." He stood and extended a hand. "Kid gloves off."  
"I welcome it." She pressed his hand, expecting a shake, but instead he kissed it reverently again- with a heady stare to follow that left her busy mind quite blank, quite silent for a long, still few seconds.  
He left the café and she remained sitting there with her cooling tea, somewhat- completely- rattled.  
Then she stood up, plunging her hand in her pocket, ready to violently pluck it out and dial the number she knew would give her the answers she craved.  
But she paused. Sighed. No, no, that wouldn't do. Still too soon. She had no favors to cash in yet. She couldn't go asking for dirt on Richard Brook from them, could she? No, definitely not. Besides- if he was snooping into her life, there wasn't much of Elizabeth Daniels to find. No harm done.  
But still...  
Slowly, hesitantly, she pressed in a different number and went out into the rain with her tea waiting for it to ring.  
He answered on the third ring with a gruff, "What?"  
"Alistair? It's-"  
"Lizzy!" The man's tone melted into warmth. It was still hoarse, and she knew in person it would smell like cigars and rum. "How are you? Where have you been, lass?"  
"I'm fine, just fine. Listen, since I know you have to tell him I called, could you do me a favor?"  
"You know I'll do anythin' for you, lass. Anythin' within my power."  
She hailed a taxi and continued speaking as it pulled up. "When I left I made a new name for myself in a fit of dramatics."  
"Aye." The man chuckled. "Elizabeth Daniels. We found you out in about a minute, sweet'art."  
"I know that, but I was wondering- could you make her real?"  
There was a pause. She climbed into the waiting taxi, put the phone on hold, and told the driver her address. When she pressed a button and held the phone back to her ear, Alistair was mumbling,  
"You mean get her papers and everythin'? ...I don't know what he would think of such a thing, lass- and you all just beginnin' to-"  
"It's not to hide from him, Ali, it's from somebody else." She was whispering, glancing at the driver. "Somebody clever that I don't want finding out about home. Not a full identity cover- just enough to throw him off the scent."  
Another uncomfortable pause. "What kinda company are you keepin' down there in the city, miss?"   
"Don't worry, I'm a big girl." she assured him. "Just- could you humor me?"  
"I don't know that I could do it personally, lass. But let me make a few phone calls. I'll see what I can do."  
Elle smiled in relief. "Thanks so much. You can reach me on the number mother has. And Ali? You're my favorite uncle."  
"And I'm not even your uncle." He responded fondly, and both of them chuckled at the old joke.  
"Say hello to mother for me, please."  
An uncertain grunt. "Uhuh. ...Your father too, lass?"  
"No-" She suddenly decided. "Just tell him I'll see him soon."  
"I will, miss. Goodbye."  
"Goodbye."  
She smirked, satisfied, and let the phone fall back into her jacket. She took up her tea and sipped it tranquilly, looking out at the rainy London afternoon and looking forward with cool interest and new confidence to Friday.


	6. Sleeper

Friday dawned late, as usual.   
Ridiculous, the seasons. Stealing the light away and plunging the earth into darkness time after time. Later and later every day, until in a few months he'd be waking up in utter darkness and have to depend on electric light to work. Quite tedious.  
Not that anybody else got up at the hours he liked to. This was both peaceful and annoying- both a lovely, quiet time to have a bit of coffee and take a walk outside, while at the same time almost too quiet. Sometimes there was nothing to do if Seb wasn't awake to call and arrange people. Sometimes he read, but his mind wandered. He hated telly. Loathed sleeping in unless absolutely necessary.  
So he prowled the streets of London until the traffic picked up and she began to revive from her night's rest, stirring into action with varying speeds, depending on the day. It was quieting, observing the outside world while it was vulnerable and dark.  
He liked Fridays best. On Fridays London came alive early and never stopped for breath until the wee hours of Saturday morning. Work and play mingled on Fridays, as they would tonight. He was anticipant. Confident.  
But he had the boring stuff to sift through, first.  
As usual, his first phone call of the day was from Sebastian. He never liked to wake up early in the morning like Jim did, but it wasn't as though he had a choice. His "G'morning, boss." was hoarse with sleep but ready, as ever, for instruction.  
Jim sniffed and flicked open that day's folder, pressing the speaker button while he messed through papers. "What have you got this morning?"  
"Not much. Everything quiet, like you asked for. Nothing but appointments and training some new boys today."  
"And security?" Jim turned the pages. Dull. Boring. Ennui.  
"Tight as ever. You're still wanting we should keep eyes on the girl and her boss?"  
Jim thought a moment. "Let go on the buffoon. He never leaves his damned office- we'll know where to pay a visit if need be. May as well give them a day off on the girl today, too. I know where she ought to be tonight."  
A tiny chuckle. "Yeah, that's right, your date. And tomorrow morning too, I suppose?  
Jim scowled and wished Seb was here to glare threateningly at. That would have shut him up. "Unfortunately, it's unlikely. This one's proving annoying."  
"Really?" The hitman sounded surprised. "Oh."  
He knew that Seb was wondering why he hadn't just dropped the girl yet and moved to another, more foolproof strategy, but didn't feel like explaining himself to a shady marksman this early in the morning. He changed the subject, shuffling through his papers again.  
"What's this?" he snapped suddenly at a fresh page. "Why are we taking on some stupid ID case? Just because I don't want to be seen doesn't mean I've stooped to smuggling idiots across the border."  
Seb paused, as he always did when Jim got antsy. Ever watchful, ever weary of gunfire. Then he cleared his throat.  
"I thought it might prove useful later on, boss. A favor, you know? Of course, I can't be totally sure, but the guy who came to me said what if we could do this for his family- that's what he said, family- they'd keep us in mind if we ever came to a spot of trouble. He sounded sure of himself. And he smelled like Habanos."  
"Who the hell are you getting me tangled up in now, Seb?" Jim growled.  
"He wasn't any big guy, boss, I swear." Seb said quickly. He was quite awake now. "He was a hitter like me, I could tell- or he used to be ten or twenty years ago, before he got fat. But anyway he said we never had to worry about getting snitched if it ever came to that. That's- that's good, isn't it?"  
Jim was silent for a long moment, breathing deeply. "I want to know who thinks they're so brilliant they've got that kind of power to give out for a simple papers job. Who are you supposed to be hiding?"  
"He wouldn't squeak on the details, but he did say "she". A woman. I'm supposed to meet her in South London. Somewhere in Southwark. Five o' clock."  
Jim froze. A sudden suspicion- a hunch, an angry prickling up his spine.   
"Where in Southwark?" he asked Sebastian. Glancing down at the yellow notes page with Seb's scrawly handwriting covering one side, he ran his finger down the notes, looking for an address. He found it as soon as Seb responded,  
"Apartment 523, 9 Brown Place, Southwark, London."  
For a few seconds Jim's thoughts were in turmoil- possibly from the shock. Then he breathed,  
"Oh, she thought she was so clever." he mused aloud. He could nearly laugh if he wasn't so angry. Oh, he would have her neck for this, surely.  
"Who did, boss?" Seb asked awkwardly.  
"Our little birdie is beginning to get herself out of hand, Seb." He grinned. "Call her people, tell them you can't make it 'til six. Never mind the idiots on security, I want you to be there the minute she gets out of work to the second I get there."  
"You're going to meet her?"   
"Yes, idiot. She's the same girl, understand?"  
"Mycroft's?" Slow on the uptake, as usual. Surprise surprise. "Jesus. What the hell is she up to?"  
Jim closed the folder and stood up, grabbing his coat. "Now you get it. While you're up and about, find out who she's really working for, who her people are, who you spoke to on her behalf, and find out what makes them so confident that they can waltz right into the goverment unnoticed."  
"You got it, boss." was Seb's dutiful reply.  
Jim hung up and went for his morning walk a little later than usual, needing the activity to get his brain calm enough to sort through the jumble.  
That girl. That clever little thing. What was she? A sleeper agent? A refugee?   
If she was searching for cover papers it meant that she meant to stay in London a while. And she hadn't moved to get them before she started work under Mycroft Holmes and niggled her way firmly within. All evidence pointed to sleeper agent. Hired spy.  
Well. If Elle Daniels was a mole, she was very soon going to be rooted up and her secret gutted out- with his bare hands, if possible. But carefully, carefully. Got to find out who was putting those lovely designer shoes into her closet before she could be properly dissected.  
He found himself swatting away minor feelings of disappointment. He had been looking forward to a slow, leisurely, even enjoyable distraction in Elle Daniels. To find out that she was toying with his game made her a threat, and therefore on the deck to be extinguished.  
Annoying that he had almost become personally involved. It was going to take a lot of Seb's talking him out of it for the temptation to kill her himself to go away. And he had wanted to, from the moment he saw her. It was instantaneous, miraculous, and somehow personal, that urge to see her blood pool up, her skin slowly pale and grow cold, watch her eyes fade away.   
He supposed that it was a bit like love at first sight, for psychopaths. Perhaps it was, just a little. He wasn't to know.  
What a morning this turned out to be.


	7. Secrets

"What do you mean, 'He can't come until six'?" The lady said quietly, dangerously into the phone.   
Sebastian hesitated, as he would have with Jim. Damn, if she didn't have the same poised, close-to-screaming voice that Jim did when he was offed with things.  
"Sincere 'pologies, madam." Seb made his gravelly voice say, very politely, in a Northern accent. Sebastian was good at disguising his voice if need be, and Jim had told him not to be seen. He glanced up at the posh apartment building from the phone booth he was hiding out in and continued, "But findin' your people to be so affable my boss said he wanted to come meet you his own self."  
Elle's voice was snappish and tinny from the poor reception. It was the bloody phone boxes, really. They ought to be done away with, they were useless. "I have places to be tonight, I haven't time to fraternize with Alistair's 'friends' from the other side of the-"  
"Which Alistair are we speakin' of, miss?" Seb asked, too pleasantly.  
A two seconds' pause. She'd slipped and given a name. Probably a vital one. Stupidly, she'd just opened her side to a hit- and they both knew it.  
"If you'd be so kind," she ground out at last, with extreme reluctance, "To tell your boss that I'm under a bit of a schedule tonight, I'd be delighted to make his acquaintance."  
"Thank you plenty, miss. He'll meet you promptly at six. Goodnight."  
Seb cleared his throat and used his cell phone to report to Jim, fiddling with the handgun in his belt fondly. All was going according to plan. And now they had a name.  
~  
A few hours later, when Sebastian had driven Jim back to 9 Brown Place and opened the door for him, he asked casually,  
"Are you sure you want to do this? It could be a trap. Her people- all of them could know about you by now, Jim."  
Jim scoffed, fiddling with the button on his left cuff. "Of course it's not a trap. She was annoyed I was coming, and even more annoyed that I was coming late. She's not thinking of anything but Richard Brook."  
"Yeah, but not after you spoil it." Seb ran a hand through his messy dark curls and stared up at the apartment building, analyzing it. He wasn't nervous- never. He was a man too prepared for any eventuality to be anxious about anything. His feet were wide apart and steady. His hands were steady too as he batted Jim's hand away to do the cuff's button for him. But he still worried. "You're going to come out of hiding to her?"  
"Who better? If she's going to beg me for her pitiful life, might as well be the right name. Nobody will care about the loss of one stupid girl."  
Seb shut up and automatically reached up to swipe down Jim's suit, simply out of habit. He would have done the same to himself, except he was wearing his hit jacket. It was dusty, faded, worn black leather and why the hell he was so fond of it Jim would never know- and he'd even offered to buy an upgrade.  
Clothes were disposable. They got worn out, tore, didn't fit, had to be displaced, tossed away, stored, or disposed. Same with people. Same with Elizabeth.  
"There. How is it?"  
"Posh, as usual, Jim. Fab." Jim could hear the dryness in Seb's voice, even if he wasn't looking. He didn't mind, really. He enjoyed their subtle teasing.  
But he still swatted Seb upside the head. Idiot.  
"Right then." Jim shoved his hands inside his pockets and started walking towards the doors of the apartment building. "Might be long. Never know with these things. Wait in the car."  
"Sure, boss." Seb got into the driver's seat, and Jim listened to him driving away as he pressed the buzzer for Elle's apartment, number 523. Top floor. Good.  
The intercom crackled a bit before coming to life. "Hello?"   
"I've an appointment with a Miss Daniels at 6 o'clock." Jim said as blandly as possible. He kept his arm covering the camera, hastily checking his watch as he did so. 5:55.  
"Please come in." Elle's voice responded, graciously and just a note impatiently.  
"Thank you, I will." Jim pulled the door open and ignored the man behind the counter who looked up as he came in and punched the button for the elevator.  
Floor one, two, three, four, five. Ding. Doors open.  
The light outside the elevator flickered hesitantly as he stepped out, and went out as he began to walk away. For a moderately well-kept apartment building, it's maintenence was sure rubbish.  
Still, the effect was heartening- the flickering seemed to follow him all the way down the hall to the last door- 523.  
He rang the bell and waited impatiently in the shadow of the shivering lights, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets. Damn Seb, not letting him carry in a gun.  
Though she knew he was coming, it was a few moments before the door opened with a hasty and generous smile and a-  
"Please excuse me, I'm right in the middle of getting ready for a-"  
Her eyes caught up to her mouth, and she halted. Dark red lips parted in surprise, large eyes widened. A flurry of emotions- confusion, mostly- and then he watched her calm, collected mask fall neatly into place. God, he wanted to slap it off. Just give him time. He knew how frightened she must be. She would break.  
"Date?" he finished, perking up a grin. He wandered an appreciatively slow gaze from her stocking'd feet to her sharp, glaring stare. He watched her lips purse tightly and grinned wider. Then he sighed mock exasperatedly.  
"Lucky man. You look simply marvelous, dear."  
And she did. More daring even then the red dress she'd worn only a week ago- was it only a week?- it was knee length and nude colored and slim, with a black lace overlay that could have hinted at subtlety, except with a raspberry red mouth and heels to match, she obviously wasn't just hinting.  
He bit the corner of his lip absently, flicking his eyes back up to her face and thinking with a pang of regret about how good she would've been.  
"May I come in?" he asked abruptly, business-like.  
"Please do." He heard her murmur. Dear thing.  
She stepped aside to let him through and he walked in easily, stretching his shoulders a bit just to get comfortable.  
Then, as though faintly hopeful, as she was shutting the door she half-asked quietly,  
"Richard Brook..."  
Jim scoffed and brushed Richard Brook away with a toss of the hand. "Fiction." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Very similar, in fact, to Elle Daniels."  
She shut the door with a snap and turned around, a faint smile on her lips.  
"You never told me you were working for the other side."  
Jim smirked. "I am the other side, and you're the one who failed to mention your substantial contacts on this 'other side' we speak of. Why not? Don't you want to be friends?"  
"We've only just met. Besides- a lady's got to keep her secrets." She folded her arms protectively over herself, as though guarding the remaining secrets there. Not that they stood a chance.  
"Ah, but now you've lost your trump card." He sauntered forward, enjoying the mounting tension in her posture. "And you've forgotten, we've not really met at all."  
Stillness. Silence. He could hear her thinking- she was bouncing from point to point like a pinball machine, but she was coming up with no answers.  
Jim smiled and made a little bow like he had the week before. "Jim Moriarty." He straightened and reached up to curiously brush the gentle curve of her cheek with the back of his hand, watching it flush with something like pleasure. "Hel-lo."  
A charming smile appeared, very tight. Her chin lowered and her eyes were steady and bright, as though she were playing coy, but her hands were clasped. Anxious.   
"Hello indeed."   
"This is the point in the conversation where you introduce yourself." Jim mock-whispered.  
"I'm disappointed." she murmured. "Don't you know by now?"  
He swiped his fingers down her cheek to lift up her face into the light. So pale, even under stress. "Give me the satisfaction of having it right."  
"Why should I give you satisfaction in anything?" she asked coolly.  
In response, he reached up with his other hand and pressed his fingers gently into her neck. "Because you want to." He clicked his tongue gently and returned his eyes slowly to hers.  
"Your heart is all of a flutter."  
She jerked away, taking a step backwards. For a few seconds, she wouldn't- couldn't?- look at him, lips drawn tight.  
When she had composed herself, she met him straight in the eyes with a complex look that held many different things. Frustration. Nerves. Something else, something strange he couldn't place. It bemused him.  
Then, at last, she caved. Just a little. Just enough. She bowed her shoulders and sank into a graceful little mock curtsey, introducing herself dryly, "Elizabeth Spencer. Pleasure."  
"Quite." Jim murmured, watching closely. Then he turned and began to pace slowly around her little apartment. It was neat. Clean. No dust. Nothing out of place. Even the fireplace was newly scrubbed.  
Scrupluous, he noted with approval. His own apartment was currently in a state of disaster. He ought to hire this girl himself.  
He shoved that thought away, annoyed. She was going to die in this neat little apartment, remember? Bringing himself back to task, he said conversationally,  
"Now that we're properly acquainted, let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?"  
She remained silent, watching him amble around her space. He went on, trailing into a hallway by the windows behind the living room,   
"Who do you work for? Why have you infiltrated the offices of Mycroft Holmes?"  
Quaint bewilderment crossed her face. She stepped behind the coffee table to watch him. "Infiltrated? I haven't the slightest idea what you're-"  
"-Elizabeth, let's not, shall we?" he snapped, whipping around to glare menacingly at her. "Just this once- enough games. Tell the truth."  
For a moment, she looked blown away by his words. And then, impossibly, she smirked.  
"All right." she said simply. "All truths."  
He stalked back down the hall and stood over the couch, leaning into her face. "Who are you working for?"  
"Me." she answered easily. "Next."  
Liar. "Why do you want ID papers?"  
"Because I didn't want you-" she hesitated- "Richard Brook to find out who I am. Was. Whichever. I have a long history that's better left... unread."  
Jim's eyes narrowed. "I have no doubt it will be a fascinating read."  
For a minute, she bit her lips, and she seemed to be far away. Then Elle sighed and turned her back on him, sinking into the couch with sudden fluidity. "This interrogation is rather boring. Shall I just start on page one? I'll skip the prologue." She reached down and pried off one high heeled shoe, then another.  
"What?" he snapped. What the hell had just happened?  
She looked over the back of the couch at him, smiling. "Come, dear." She patted the seat beside her. "Let me tell you a story. Mine."  
Damn her. How? How could she guess? The one thing- two things, actually- that would shut him up instantaneously. A story. A game.  
"Cast of Characters." she began without him, speaking to the fireplace, her eyes closed. "Elliot Spencer, a wealthy man- a king, albeit of questionable means. Cecilia Daniels Spencer, his wife, the queen."  
Jim's ears pricked up at "Daniels". So that's where she'd gotten it from.  
"Elizabeth, their only child. Alistair, the king's advisor, the queen's cousin. Dukes, lords, pages, and other members of the court. End of cast. The scene- a red castle, covered in ivy, which has been in the family for generations, among other things. The year is one since past. The estate is in chaos."  
Despite himself, Jim sank on the arm of the couch, listening and watching her placid little face. She continued,  
"Center stage, the king, Elliot, speaks with his advisor Alistair. The queen looks on, probably doing needlepoint or something. There is a knock at the door.  
"'Alas, a knock!' the king says. 'Come in!'  
"'Father, I wish to speak to you.' said Elizabeth, with much trembling.  
"'Well, my child, what is it?' the king asked impatiently. He had little time for such things as daughters.  
"'I wish to go to school.' The princess replied. 'Well, that is already agreed upon. You have almost completed university. Why do you bother me with this, stupid girl?'  
"'Father,' said the princess, 'I wish to go to school to study law.'" Elle shifted slightly. Her peacefulness had melted. Jim understood. This had actually happened. She was lost in memory.  
"'What! No daughter of mine shall study law! Impertinent child, I sent you to school to find a suitable husband to rule the kingdom after I am dead. Be gone, and never speak of it again!'  
"The princess wept and fled, vowing that she would learn what she liked, do what she pleased, and never more be bound by the wishes of her father. But at this, her father cut off the princess' funds. She could graduate university, but she couldn't afford to continue alone."  
Elle opened her eyes slowly, staring far, far away. "She hated him for that. For a long time- a year- they didn't speak. The queen was distraught by it all- she was their only child, after years of trials and tribulations."  
She stood up and wandered towards the window, hugging herself. "She moved into the city, managing to live unsupported. Untethered, free. But lonely. Her father's allies were dubious in the eyes of the public, and she was no traitor. So she kept herself busy. Held a few jobs. Gained experience, skill. Had a few lovers, met some new faces. But she was still lonely. And growing bored. So finally, the gap was bridged between father and daughter. They found each other in themselves, and regretted the time lost. They moved on, and things went on as they always had, except for one thing- the princess, for the first time, was entirely on her own."  
A pause. Jim stood. But the story wasn't over.  
"She thought she had escaped the... obligations her father had made the family. For a while there, she really believed she was something different. Someone normal at last. And then she met somebody- a man. So familiar, so mysterious, that it sent chills into her bones. If this man, she thought, finds out about my family and I, all is lost, and I will be doomed back to whence I came, this time forevermore."  
Another pause.  
Impatient for the end, Jim stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, watching her look out into the setting sun.  
"And then?" he prompted.  
"And then all was lost." She finished simply, and sighed. "You found me out, and you turned out to be... well." She turned, smiling at him. "What shall you be? The lonely kingdom next door?"  
"What makes you think I'm lonely?" Jim scoffed.  
"You were going to take me on a date until you thought I was zoning in on your scheme with Mr. Holmes, whatever that may be- point one. You took the time to flirt with me instead of killing me off, point two." She lifted her arms and trailed them loosely around his neck, her smile becoming teasing. "And I've seen how you look at me, consulting criminal. You want to pull me apart bit by bit." She breathed her lips across his cheek and then hovered over his mouth. "But first you want to have me ask you to."  
Jim laughed quietly and closed his eyes. Damn her. His grip suddenly tightened on her shoulders as she began dropping light kisses down his jaw. She smelled good- not sweet, exactly. Floral. Like lilac and fresh grass.  
"I don't believe you. But you have heard of me?" he murmured as though bored, distracting himself in order to try to think. What was he doing, again?  
"Oh, yes." Elle answered. She lazily drew her fingernails up his scalp as she spoke and he nearly combusted. "Father was so interested in your little spectacle on the roof of St. Bart's. He said you weren't dead. What would be the point of the game if you were?" His grip was getting tighter and tighter, but she seemed to pay no mind to it.  
"That's all he knows." she murmured suddenly. "I know other things."  
He couldn't take her touching him any more. He tilted back to look at her, and her eyes were thoughtful and as big as ever. They flicked up to meet his, almost wonderingly, dreamily.  
"I know where to listen to the whispers that aren't there." Elle whispered. "The name nobody ever says. The perpetual question mark. The man with all the keys."  
"You're making it very difficult to choose between killing you and kissing you."  
She smiled like this was obvious, massaging circles into his neck with her fingers, unconcerned. "Better choose."  
He leaned down. Her eyes closed.  
A sudden vibrating noise. Burr, burr. Burr, burr. And immediately afterwards, a familiar, dramatic durge. Dun dun dun dun...dun dun dun dun...  
Jim glanced down at Elizabeth, who sighed heavily and morosely.  
"Beethoven's Fifth?" he drawled lightly. "Bit melodramatic of a ringtone."  
"You're one to talk?" she quipped, letting go and gliding away to pick up her phone from the couch.   
"...Nah." he agreed, shoving his hands back into his pockets and leaning against the window to watch her phone call.  
Beethoven ceased as she picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear without looking at it, facing away from him as she said painfully sweetly,  
"Alistair, dear, like I told you, I am absolutely and completely f-"  
She froze. The muscles in her back tensed. Jim quirked an eyebrow.  
"Papa!" Elle gasped. Her entire demeanor changed from slightly annoyed to complete bewilderment. "How did you-?"  
Pause. Jim couldn't hear the reply, but Elle laughed uncertainly. "Of course." A longer pause. Her father must be clever (or otherwise connected) indeed, to get a number Elle had hadnso carefully guarded. She was certainly rattled- her usually confident voice was shy, uncertain. It was endearing.  
Elizabeth's shoulders softened, and Jim could imagine her face doing the same. Her voice lowered to a gentle pitch.  
"Whenever it suits you, Papa." she said softly. "I want to see you."   
Another pause, a few 'yes'es and 'fine's.   
"Yes, all right. I'll see you then." Then her head perked up suddenly. "Oh, and Papa? If I might bring a friend along, he's someone you've wanted to meet."  
Jim's eyes narrowed suspiciously. She wouldn't dare, the little brat. He wasn't about to throw himself around London, being seen by other people who might matter.  
She turned and smirked at him. Daring.  
"Yes, Papa, him. You'll quite like him- I do. Yes, I'll see you then. Good night."  
She hung up, tossed the phone back into the couch, and casually began to step back into her heels.  
"Is the car still waiting?" she asked lightly. "I'm starving."  
"You didn't." Jim growled.  
"Oh, but I did, dear." She leaned to check her lipstick, tutted, and strolled past him to presumably her bedroom, heels clicking. When she emerged, she had a clutch in her hands.  
"What makes you think I would have any desire whatsoever to meet your parents, you presumptuous little meddler?" But he did, really. He wondered who Elliot Spencer was. He wondered if Elizabeth took after him or her mother. Mostly he wanted to know just how deeply rooted Elliot's 'family' was in the heart of London's criminal affairs. Was it true? It might be. It just might. Because they certainly couldn't be anything else but criminals, to be making such money. You only had to look at Elle's expensive wardrobe. But still he hesitated, suspecting treachery.  
"Oh, whatever, come if you like, don't if you don't. I don't care." Elle waved her hand airily at him, fixing her lipstick in a mirror in the hall.  
"Yes you do. You want me to meet your father." He stepped behind her in the mirror, meeting her eyes in the reflection. They quickly looked away. "Why?"  
"Maybe..." she said at last, "I want him to see I haven't been totally useless for the past year." she murmured, dropping the lipstick back into her clutch. "Maybe I want him to know I'm still on his side."  
She looked up, sad and serious for just a second. Then she said brightly,  
"Please Jim? Won't you fix it for me to come to tea?"  
He rolled his eyes.  
"Please?" she drawled, smiling coaxingly. "I'll owe you a favor. Two, if you like."  
"What favors could I possibly need from you?" he raised an eyebrow at her dramatics, wondering where the hell this woman had been all his life.  
"Anything you like." she said seriously. "Anything. I'm sure you'll find a use for them."  
He looked at her pale, clever face and dark lips and thought perhaps he could. Tonight, even. Just maybe.   
Damn it, why did this keep happening to him? The minute he stood in her presence his plans crumbled. His resolve to be done with her failed. What was happening to him? Why couldn't he just give in? It had always been so easy.  
This was becoming anything but easy. He didn't know what to do, and he hated that feeling. Perhaps he'd talk to Sebastian. The only person on Earth who would listen.  
But first things first.  
"Dinner, Elizabeth?" he suggested lightly.  
She beamed. "I thought you'd never ask."


	8. Sinnerman

Elizabeth Spencer left her apartment very calm, collected, and very much alive. This feat, accomplished on the arm of Jim Moriarty no less, established killer and psychopathic genius, caused Sebastian Moran to gawk in the car where he waited.  
Jim saw, of course, and rolled his eyes as he opened the door for the girl. If he was going to keep having to explain himself to Seb, it was going to get boring quickly. But all that later. He got into the car himself and said cheerfully,  
"Take us to the restaurant, Seb! No need to be out all night."  
"Sure, boss." the hitman muttered, putting the car into drive and pulling away. But his confusion was obvious. He kept glancing into the rearview mirror much more often than normal. Not at Elle, though. She wasn't a concern to him- no, she was busy with her phone. Seb kept peering behind him at Jim, who glared at him silently to stop it, the annoying bastard.  
The girl was supposed to be dead, not quietly and contently texting in the backseat. This would make the first time Jim had ever left seriously threatening to kill someone and come back not having done so. It was no wonder Sebastian was confused.  
All three of them were quiet on the way- Elle texted placidly, Jim stared out the window, and Seb drove stoicly.  
They arrived within ten minutes, and Seb recommenced his slightly alarmed stare as again, Jim played gentleman and helped Elle out of the car. Jim shot him a deadly, 'shut up, we'll talk later, idiot' kind of glare, shut the door and escorted Elizabeth in.  
The maître d' smiled simperishly and welcomed them with a, "Good evening. Name?"  
"Richard Brook." Jim said indifferently. The bulging man had a twitching vein in his temple that was probably going to burst into his head and kill him soon (if his heart attack didn't), a suit that while well-made was ill-tailored, and was cutting sly looks at them over the reservation list. Boring.  
"If you'll follow me, sir, your table is waiting."  
They were seated in a cosy corner of the half filled, warm restaurant, presented with a wine list, and left alone for a matter of seconds before the waitress arrived, young and nervous (obviously new), depositing bread on the table and stuttering her way through an introduction and specials list.  
"Two French 75s, if you please." Jim handed the girl the wine list without a second glance, choosing instead to sneak one up at Elle, who suppressed a smile but didn't say anything until the waitress left, when she said wryly,  
"You ought to be kinder to the poor thing. It's her first day."  
Jim, who had expected a comment on the cocktails, blinked, fazed that she would think to lecture him about kindness. But then his lips twitched. "How do you know?" he asked, wanting to test her.  
"It's plain to see by her nerves." Elle said simply, turning a page. "But her shirt is new, apron spotless, and she used lipstick, liner, and lipgloss."  
Jim laughed. "What? Lipgloss? That's how you deduced it?"  
Elle raised an eyebrow. "Yes." She set her menu down at the edge of the table and shifted to get comfortable in her chair. "A girl notices these things, even if men don't."  
"I simply don't see what lipgloss has to do with anything."  
"It makes the lips shiny." Elle explained.  
"I know that." Jim chuckled. "And I also note you're not wearing any. Why not? Isn't that the thing?"  
Elle looked aghast. "Not with dark lipstick, Jim."  
"Forgive me, have I said something obvious?" he asked dryly. God, he hoped not.  
She laughed softly- almost a giggle. "To me, yes. But I don't suppose you'll ever have need of it, will you?"  
"Not personally, no. But practically, you never know. Enlighten me?"  
She raised her eyebrows at him before smilingly accepting the cocktail offered to her by the waitress and taking a sip.  
"What?" Jim said defensively, though he smiled. "I want to know."  
"No you don't." she laughed. "That's ridiculous, what would you want to know about makeup for?"  
"For practical reasons. Because I like to learn new things. Because I want you to tell me things, Elizabeth. So-" He tipped his forehead and his glass to her before he drank- "Humor me."  
Something soft and wondering in her gaze made him pause, uncertain, but she laughed softly again and said,  
"All right. Lipstick. Depends on skin, eyes, and hair colors- brighter skin and eyes work with brighter lip colors, and vice versa with dark. Dark lips are better for nighttime, or for fall- and sparingly, because they're dramatic, and you'd never add a gloss to them because the dark color is a statement in itself- the shine is asking for too much attention."   
She glanced around and then leaned forward to whisper, smiling, "Personally I think lipgloss and lipstick are separate entities and should be treated so- using both is an exclamation of 'Have me, adore me, look at me!'"  
"I am." Jim murmured.   
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and sighed (he didn't blame her).  
The rest of dinner went as smoothly, as cautiously. They stuck to small talk and subtle flirting. They were in public. It was a dim, warm restaurant, filled with unconcerned patrons, on a typical summer Friday in London. And yet both of them felt... exposed.  
As they finished their dinners (she ate like a bird, no wonder she was so slim) Elle asked,  
"What do we do now?"  
"Hm?" Jim hummed absently.  
"I mean..." she hesitated. Shook her head. "Never mind. I'll elaborate in a minute. I've got it." she added, as the waitress deposited their check with a smile.  
"No, actually dear, I have." Jim said smoothly, sliding two bills into the sleeve and handing it back.  
"Shall we split it?" Elizabeth asked pleasantly.  
"Nope." Jim said firmly. "We'll have the change, thank you, love." He said to the waitress, who awkwardly left.  
Elle sighed, obviously annoyed. "I was the one who initially suggested dinner. Twice."  
"And I suggested it last, so I pay." Jim said airily. "Don't fight it, darling, it won't be the last time."  
"It won't?" The corner of her mouth lifted.  
Jim didn't answer, only smirked, and accepted the change from the waitress.  
"Oh, just a minute, please." Elle said quickly, fishing in her bag. The waitress paused, and her glossy pink lips parted in utter surprise as Elle deposited two notes into the shocked girl's hands.  
"Have a nice night dear, I hope your first night goes well." Elle said dismissively, hiding a smile Jim was sure was meant for him and had nothing to do with the girl. He glowered.  
"How- how did you-?" The waitress stuttered. She watched Elle rise in awe and let out a beaming smile and a, "Thank you very much, madam!" before scurrying away.  
"Why did you do that?" Jim asked in a low voice, carefully settling an arm around Elle's waist and smirking, satisfied, when it was allowed to remain.  
"It's her first night." Elle said carelessly. "She ought to have one good tip."  
"You gave her two hundred pounds- almost the equivalent of the bill."  
"So?" She blinked into her handmirror peacefully, ignoring him.  
"You wanted to be obstinate, you stubborn little thing." Jim contradicted, almost fondly.  
She snapped her mirror shut and smiled, but didn't reply because Sebastian was waiting outside the car, leaning on it and looking wildly out of place in his ridiculous leather jacket, apparently without a care.  
"Hello, Miss Spencer." he said politely. He glanced at Jim for confirmation, and receiving a nod, turned his gaze back to Elle expectantly.  
"Hello. We spoke on the phone." Elle commented thoughtfully. "It was you originally supposed to procure my ID papers."  
"Do you still need them?"  
"No." She laughed. "My secret is out. But I never got your name, Mister...?"  
"Moran." he supplied. "Sebastian Moran, at your service, m'am."  
"Pleasure. Could you take me back home, Sebastian?"  
"Of course, m'am." He moved to open the door, and immediately left for the driver's seat, letting Jim close the door behind him.  
Another silent drive, not even broken by the sound of a radio- Seb liked to listen to music, but Jim didn't.  
"Will you come in?" Elle asked as they arrived, reaching to brush her fingers over Jim's hand.  
He took it and kissed it. "Of course I will."  
In the elevator, Elle leaned her head comfortably on Jim's shoulder, lids half shut.  
"I had a nice time." she said tranquilly.  
"Good. So did I."  
"It was strange, though."  
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Jim grinned to himself.  
Elle whispered confidentally, "I haven't been on a real date before. Not in years."  
"Me either." Jim revealed, to his own surprise. The doors opened, and they walked down the hallway, whose flickering lights made strange shadows on the thick carpet.  
She unlocked the door, but turned to face him. Oh. He wasn't coming in tonight. Damn.  
Suddenly, he asked, "Are you a virgin, Elizabeth?"  
She smiled. "No. Are you?"  
"No." He leaned against the doorframe, admiring her mouth. "I only wonder why you haven't been on any dates."  
"Remember when I said I don't do one night stands?" she murmured, reaching forward to brush her hand down his tie curiously.  
"Mhm?" he traced the edge of her jawline slowly with a finger, wishing he could figure out why his stomach felt so warm and anxious.  
"That's because, you see, I prefer two week long flings. No strings attached. Much less tedious."  
"A sweet little thing like you?" Jim teased, slowly, carefully framing her pale face in his hands. She smiled and leaned into him, eyes shut and expression dreamy. He raked his eyes almost desperately over her features, determined to memorize it. As though she were going to evaporate between his fingers.  
"I shouldn't think of it." he murmured. "You're supposed to be the innocent young virgin. I'm supposed to be charming you with wicked wiles."  
"You are charming. But how about one of those wiles of yours?"  
Obligingly he pressed his lips to hers, aware of the relieved little sigh that escaped her lips, but not of the clever little hands that snuck under his jacket until he sighed himself and held her tighter, kissed her harder.  
Was that a little shiver he felt? It was. Something stirred in his belly and he pressed harder, held tighter, with almost a fierce note of anger, built up frustration, desire. He didn't want to let go. Not ever. Something was changing. He wanted to dissolve into her and she into him. The first time he'd kissed her he'd thought of electricity waiting to be switched on- this time he thought of being electrocuted, and if this were it, it would be a welcome execution.  
Elle gasped suddenly, gulping down air with a harsh noise that she tried hard to quiet. Oh, that sound was dangerous. It nearly made him quake. He wanted to hear it again. He opened his eyes, and found the sight of her panting for breath extremely pleasant, like heady wine. He bent and kissed her throat on impulse, delighting in the warmth of hot blood pumping feverishly beneath it.  
"Oh," she whispered, nearly a whimper, "I want to let you in."  
"Then let me in." he murmured, sliding his hands down to join his mouth in adoring her throat.s  
"I will." she whispered. "But not tonight. Please, not tonight."  
"All right." He straightened, slightly drunken off of the kiss and off of the awed, trembling look she was giving him.  
"I'll be in touch." he promised.  
"Yes." Elle smiled wearily. Her grey, ice-like eyes twinkled. "My lipstick becomes you."  
"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" He bent and kissed her again firmly. "Goodnight, Elizabeth."  
"Goodnight, Jim." With a slightly dazed smile, she slid behind her door and shut it, leaving him there.  
Jim sighed, frustrated. He could do with a cold shower. And a cigarette.  
But never mind.  
"Seb?" he said when he returned to the car, "We've got homework to do."  
~~  
"It seems she wasn't lying." Seb said over his mess of papers, leaning both hands on the desk. He had just gotten off the phone, to which he had been attached for the last three-quarters of an hour, talking to people and asking about Elliot Spencer.  
"Her father's behind the scenes of everything from arson to z. Real heavy hitter. And for years, it looks like."  
"But he's not directly responsible for any of it?" Jim insisted, pacing back and forth behind Sebastian, his third cigarette between his teeth. It wasn't giving him the composure he wanted. He could still feel the oily residue where Elle's lipstick remained- where he could almost feel her lips lingering. He couldn't bring himself to wash it off yet.  
"No," Sebastian continued. He leaned over his laptop and pressed a few keys. "In fact, his name doesn't appear anywhere. I'm even hard put to find his mate, this Alistair bloke. But he's got a factory in Leeds. Makes pills."  
"Boring. What else?"  
"He was originally a tailor."  
"What? Ridiculous." Jim turned and leaned over his shoulder. "Where are you reading this?"  
"His website. Got a picture and everything."  
"He's got a website?" Jim scoffed, gazing at the photo. "What is he doing, asking for an arraignment?" He looked closer. An aging gentleman, of course, tall and rather worn looking, from overuse. Jim grimaced. Ugh, age was disgusting. But this man seemed to be braving it rather well; his wrinkles were only deepset in the heavy forehead. His silvery hair was the exact color of his sharp, clever eyes, which stared out of the photo and gave Jim a little chill. He laughed appreciatively.  
"She's certainly her father's daughter." he remarked.  
"She is?" Seb asked skeptically. "I don't see it."  
"Yes, they've got the same eyes."  
"Oh." Seb paused, and Jim wished he would hurry up and say whatever was on his mind.  
"Do you like this girl, Jim?"  
Jim made a tutting noise at the stupid question and stood up, walking away and returning his thoughts to his cigarette.  
Seb's words were careful, but urgent, full of concern. "You know what I mean. She's got to be alive for a reason- and now she knows who you are... she's dangerous. What do you plan to do about it? Is killing her off even an option to you anymore?"  
Jim blew smoke at the ceiling slowly. "Think I'll have to make an appointment to meet Daddy soon. Got to find out what they're really up to. Which lies are real. Which are deceptions. Should be interesting, don't you think?"


	9. My Blood on Your Hands

_Warnings: V. minor blood/gore towards the end!_

Elle stared in actual exasperation at the massive vase sitting on her coffee table, her keys still in the door, arms laden with shopping. Though previously locked, her apartment had obviously been breached to deliver the flowers. Great. So much for security. So much for expensive locks and unbreachable doors.  
Not that it would have been the most difficult thing to pick a lock, but _honestly_. There were other methods that didn't involve showing off. The flirt.  
She deposited her bags on the floor and crept closer to see. The vase itself was enormous- crystal or glass, and filled to the brim with easily two dozen flowers of different varieties. Queen Anne's Lace, tulips, and the roses! So many roses- pink and white and coral and pale, lovely peach- her favorite. It took her breath away.  
As had probably been the intention. She shook her head, laughing quietly to herself because no one could see. Probably. Forcibly she shoved away the chill creeping up her back that wondered, nervously, how easily her space had been invaded.  
Carefully, she pried a peach rose out of it's place and inhaled the gentle perfume with a little sigh.  
 _A small girl toddles into the garden, throwing shoes and stockings behind her. Hair pins fly out into the wind and giggling fills the hot breeze- it is Sunday afternoon after church, and she is free- unchained. The sun bears down on a blonde head thick with frizz and curl and bouncy with youthful abandon._  
 _The grass feels cool and fresh under bare feet, and makes her giggle louder. The nanny won't come until tomorrow, and Mummy is entertaining people indoors._  
A delicious smell tickles her senses, and suddenly a wonderful idea occurs. She flies across the garden, quiet as a mouse with her new, special secret. Mummy's rose bush is a thing of beauty. The first blooms are showing their blushing faces. Slowly, Elizabeth reaches forward and grabs the prettiest, a nodding damsel that is almost as lovely as the tiny thing can bear.  
 _She gasps in pain- the thorns dig into her baby flesh, and a trickle of blood creeps down her hand. It stings, but the blood merely fascinates her- what is this red ooze?- a mild distraction. But she is determined. With a gigantic tug, she wins the flower from the bush and crows in victory. She runs into the house as fast as she can- in through the back door, through the kitchen, down the hall and into the parlor._  
 _She freezes- she has forgotten Mummy has company. Six or seven tall, laughing ladies pause in their chatter and Elizabeth trembles, sure she's in deep trouble._  
 _"Elizabeth? Are you bleeding?" Her mother appears, lovely and sweet and gentle._  
 _"I got you the pretty flower, Mummy." Elizabeth says timidly. The thorns in her palms are irrelevant. Nurse will take many minutes later prying them all out, but the girl will not shed a single tear._  
 _"Oh, cheri." Mummy bends and smiles. Her lady friends twitter. "My favorite. Merci."_  
 _Elizabeth glows._  
That's right. The summer home in Nice. She hadn't been there in years, but she still remembered her mother's rose bush and it's lovely fragrance, which had lulled her to sleep every childhood summer of her life.  
Her phone vibrated with a text from within her purse, pulling her out of her thoughts and back onto her feet.  
She hefted the shopping bags into the kitchen and put the groceries away first, trying to settle her nerves and convince herself that she was perfectly safe and very much on the good side of one master criminal.  
She checked the text. It was from an unknown number, and read:  
 _Do you like your present?_  
-RB  
Elle rolled her eyes at his dramatics. For the second time in a weekend, her phone number had been hacked. Why did she even bother?  
But glancing at the peach rose on the counter, she smiled faintly and quickly texted back,  
 _They're lovely, thank you._  
Nearly immediately, a reply arrived.  
 _Not the flowers. Look under the red rose buds._  
Red rose buds? Frowning in confusion, she took her phone and her peach rose and bent over the coffee table again to look.  
In the middle of the arrangement, a single, full-blown white rose was dipping its head slightly. She tipped it out of the way and could see two red buds- tiny baby flowers entwined together by something shiny.  
Slowly, she pulled the necklace out by its fine chain. It was heavier than she expected, and when the stone came swinging into view she gasped so loudly that she clasped her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound.  
A huge ruby, easily bigger than the size of her middle finger and thumb curled together, hung delicately off of its silver chain, sparkling in the dim light of her apartment. Iridescent red and purple, clear and smooth and perfect, it gleamed with a light all its own, swinging gently below her outstretched fist.  
Her heart pumping wildly, rapidfire thoughts bounced from one side of her brain to another. She squeezed the chain until it bit into her flesh, willing herself not to tremble. Part of her was beaming with pleasure- another was quaking. This was something entirely different than a simple vase of flowers. What kind of feelings was she inspiring in the mind and heart of London's most psychopathic criminal? And what exactly was her opinion on that subject, anyway?  
He could come and kill you in the night, she thought. That's not how you planned to die- is it?  
The ruby shimmered, a red that was anything but innocent. She was reminded suddenly of Jim's low laughter, his languid smirks, the trembling mess of her he'd made when he'd left her at her door two nights ago. And God, that voice. She adored his unique voice- smooth, high, melodic, Irish and sexy. She bit her lips hard and squeezed her eyes shut. Best not think about that at the moment, Elizabeth, she chided herself nervously, Or you'll go and think about accepting this bauble.  
" _Let me in,_ " he'd murmured into her skin. Not demanding or laughing or teasing. Utter seriousness. He would have come in and continued kissing her and who knows what else. And she would have melted into a happy, girlish puddle in his capable hands. Could she afford that? Could her family?  
Elizabeth trembled. "I will." she had promised. She had said she would let him in. Not when or how, but the promise had been in the timber of her voice. She couldn't very well take it back, and nor did she necessarily want to- did she? Could she really do it? Let this man- this cool, suave killer- into her apartment, into her life, and maybe even into her heart?  
She shivered, suddenly very warm- her cheeks burned, and her stomach felt like it was suddenly rotting in her gut. And yet the ruby's cold chain remained cold- her hands were freezing. Her body was displaying minute signs of hypothermia- maybe she was going to freeze to this very spot. She scowled. Over the likes of a serial killer. Damn him.  
Well, she knew one way to get her blood flowing.  
With the necklace still in her hand, she pulled her chilly fingers from her mouth, picked up her phone, and stiffly dialed the number he was texting from.  
It rang only once, and was answered with an irritable,  
 _"What do you want?"_  
For just a second, she only listened- let the sound absorb into her brainwaves, let her blood grow hot again, and smiled. Dangerous. Was she turning into Jim Moriarty's thermostat? Then, ignoring his tone (Papa was worse), she sank into the couch, watching the pendant swing and asking, business-like, "Are you busy at the moment?"  
A pause of perhaps two seconds, in which she could sense him smirking slowly. Her stomach contracted unpleasantly, and she ignored it. She disliked phone conversations- so many vocal cues were lost- but they were necessary. She would have to adapt.  
 _"Not presently."_ he said in a much more satisfied way. _"How are you, darling?"_  
"What have you done?" she murmured threateningly, half a pleased smile not quite ruining the sound effect she had intended.  
 _"I'm a man with a long history, Elizabeth- you'll have to specify."_  
"You have given me," Elle said slowly, "The Philosopher's Stone hidden in a vase of roses."  
A scoffing sound. _"If that was even real, I would have. An everyday stone sans the Elixir of Life will have to do."_  
She laughed once in stunned disbelief, covering her mouth again because laughing was rude. She gave herself a moment to close her eyes and recompose her thoughts.  
 _"I'm not so sure about your tone, dear,"_ Jim went on, as though a little bemused, _"But I kinda_ like _it. Are you angry with me?"_  
Impossible. This man was completely impossible. An everyday stone? A ruby the damned size of a strawberry and he was going for nonchalant and flirtacious? And if he kept playing with his voice like that she was going to lose it. Completely lose it.  
No no no. Not for long, she vowed. She stood suddenly, pressing the phone into her ear and shucking off her shoes as she spoke, ignoring his previous question.  
"Are you going to be not-presently-busy for a while?"  
 _"I could be. Why?"_  
Elle arranged the pendant carefully on the coffee table and made her way into her bedroom. "My apartment building's visiting hours are now open, and I have a certain everyday stone to return to a profligate gentleman caller of mine. Mind assisting?"  
 _"Mm."_ An amused quality made his voice tingle into the muscles of her ear pleasantly, and with a slow breath she willed herself to focus on changing panties and not losing them. _"Those are so annoying. Are you going to let him down gently?"_  
"Absolutely not, but don't you worry. He'll pop out of here with this pendant in his pocket."  
 _"Unlikely. Leave your door open. Give me thirty minutes."_  
"Twenty." She zipped her dress back up with effort, a difficult task to do one-handed.  
 _"Eager?"_ Almost a laugh in his voice now. She was going bite her lipstick off. She closed her eyes.  
"Impatient." she corrected sternly.  
 _"Of course."_ Dryly. _"I'll be right there."_  
"You'd better." Elle muttered, hanging up and trailing into the bathroom. "I want that shiny thing so badly it's a heartache." She rested her hands on either side of the sink, scowling. "And it's going to be hard work to get that preening ego of yours to take it back in the first place, thank you _so_ much."  
She had come into the bathroom with the intention of freshening up- perhaps a new coat of lipstick, repinning a stray lock or two, maybe toying with some eyeliner.  
But now her hand hesitated over her hairpins. She glanced up into the mirror, gazing critically at her reflection. Her eyes were brighter, cheeks more ruddy than they had been in a year. But still she doubted.  
Was she deliberately sporting her best frocks and effectively wasting lipstick on this man? What exactly did she intend the outcome of this evening to be, if she was being honest?  
The return of the pendant? Hopefully. It was so damned _expensive_ , and so attractive for that reason. Money wasn't intimidating to her- she could easily lie back and let him try and woo her with rubies and other fine things. Others had before. Not that they'd lasted long.  
And what of Jim Moriarty? Was he so different? Was it going to come to anything other than fearing that her door was going to open and a dark shadow come out of it in the middle of the night and drive a pointy reckoning into her heart?  
Elle scoffed at herself, leaving the hairpins and going for her perfume instead. Never mind it. Don't be silly. The lipstick wasn't for him. Neither were the dresses or the heels. Elizabeth Spencer dolled herself up for no man.

She did it for herself- to enjoy the effects both in the mirror and in the eye of the public. She enjoyed the magnetism a well cut dress could afford, the eyes that followed- men and women's, appreciative or otherwise. The gazes that stuck to her like flies to honey and blood to a knife. She craved it.

She picked up a blood red lipgloss thoughtfully. It was new and quite tempting in its pristine little case. She opened it and applied it with all the absent-minded skill of a woman long accustomed to doing makeup, nearly glaring down at the counter as she did. Silly. Never mind. It was certainly no time to get bothered. If Jim happened to be caught in the crossfire of her ministrations, all the best of luck to him. She was prepared.  
Humming quietly low in her throat, she finished her makeup and left the suite, finding herself at the coffee table again, trailing her fingers over the chain of the pendant, this time curiously. It was so beautiful- so new.  
After a moment's hesitation, she hung the chain off of her fingers and let the gem sparkle in the light of the afternoon sun. It really seemed luminescent from here, even though that was logically impossible. Just as though something outside nature was making it glimmer like that, a low, late summer's glow. And was it heavy -she could only guess at the density, but was sure that even a drop out her fifth floor window wouldn't put a scratch into it.  
Her other hand trailed up, not quite willing to touch it, almost with the subconscious sense it would burn, with a colour so red and flickering. She found herself wondering things she had never concerned herself about, at least before she set out on her own. Things like- how much had he spent on this, really? How much was a single date worth? A single woman? Could you put a monetary limit on something as strange as this? Was it priceless, this game they were toying with? Or worthless in the end?  
She heard him come in. Of course she did. Her door was right behind and though he was nearly silent and chillingly so, the walls themselves seemed to hush anxiously at his arrival.  
She smiled. There was a part of her deep inside that did that too.  
A hand, brushing up her waist, another curling around her shoulder, the warm whisper of his breath next to her ear. She closed her eyes and tilted her head towards the sound, the chill she'd felt since discovering the pendant melting away.  
"Go on." he murmured, sing-song. "You want to..."  
"I oughtn't." she whispered back. "It's too much, you know."  
"Elizabeth, if I wanted to overdo a thing, trust me. I could have. You are already toying with minimal self-control, my dear." The warmth of his breath tickled her neck and she squeezed her eyes shut, forgetting to breathe.  
"Am I?" This made her smile a little. She liked to think of his self-control slipping, spiraling away- all at merely a touch from her. What a heady cocktail that would be.  
Jim reached around her and brushed his fingers over the back of her hand, scooping the chain from her fingers into his. "Does that amuse you?"  
"It's a tempting challenge."  
He let out an exasperated sigh. "I give you a ruby and you're more interested in playing with my patience?"  
Without waiting for an answer, he took the pendant and strung it around her, clasping the catch at just the right height to settle the stone comfortably under the bone to the hollow of her throat.  
Elle shivered again, gooseflesh breaking over her skin. It was cold. Cold enough, next to her heart, even to make her shiver again. It looked like a coal that had just been plucked out of a fire, but it was truly a stone. Cold, unbreakable, heavy.  
She turned, reaching again as though to touch the tear-shaped gem, but again hesitating, her fingers splayed around it instead. It seemed too much of a lovely thing to touch with human fingers.  
Jim's eyes were dark, and he didn't smile. He seemed much taller now that he had shoes on and she didn't. Almost of their own accord, his hands trailed up to her hair and began plucking out the pins holding it all up. Instead of teasing, his voice was low and serious when he murmured,  
"Do you think, Elizabeth, that you could do me the honour of taking care of this for a while?"  
"It's a burden I could bear easily enough." She smiled, but it faded quickly upon a sudden realization. Her hair continued falling around her ears. "You didn't buy this, did you?"  
"No." he said matter-of-factly. He pulled out the last pins in the very back. Elle swiveled her head to the side to help him. "It was given me. A very long time ago."  
"You want me to have it?"  
"I'd like you to keep it warm for me." He swept her fallen hair over her shoulder and sucked in a tiny breath- she heard it.  
"See something you like?" she teased gently.  
Jim blinked once, all long lashes, dark eyes. And then something hard and terrifyingly clever sparkled, a tiny drop of menace in his gaze. None of him moved. It was chilling, terrifying, gorgeous. She stilled.  
"Is that why you keep your hair up?" he said quietly, thoughtfully. "Wear those silly big girl shoes and paint your lips redder than sin?"  
Elle kept silent. She was watching the thoughts pour from thoughts to epiphanies to words with almost hypnotized fascination.  
He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger, tilting his head as though there were something he couldn't quite figure.  
"Look at you." he murmured. "So little and white and breakable. Like a doll. Like a child."  
Suddenly his fingers tightened and then let go. His wondering voice froze over and grew icy. "How old are you?"  
"What an inappropriate question." She raised an eyebrow.  
 _"Elizabeth-"_  
"I'm twenty-four, would you kindly relax?" She scowled unhappily. "Yes, I look seventeen, but I assure you I'm not."  
She watched him breathe again. His eyes melted back into easy, quiet brown. He even tried to make it up, by smiling and assuring her, "You don't look seventeen, darling."  
She shot an evil look at him. "Liar."  
"Don't believe me? Tsk." He bit down a smirk that appeared so suddenly it made her stomach jump woosily. "You should. Yeah, you may be little. What-" He cast a glance to the top of her head- "One and a half meters?"  
"I am not-"  
"Ah." he said warningly, curling a smile. She quieted- reluctantly.  
He framed her face with his hands, his voice low and thoughtful and just a little mocking. "You're little and sweet and charming with your hair down and your shoes off. But it certainly doesn't make me want you any less."  
"Ah. The truth arises." she teased quietly, but there was a warm fluttering now in her belly that she promptly ignored. Or tried to. It was quite prominent.  
"All as if you didn't know. Bless you, how precious."  
"I always did, though." Partly because she now could, she rolled up onto the tips of her toes and kissed him, intending for a quick peck, but ending up remaining there when he settled his hands around her waist, squeezing lightly. To her dismay, he broke the kiss to grin.  
"I knew it." he murmured. "Dancer."  
"It's kind of obvious?" she said, a little pityingly, with a soft smile, remaining en pointe. "I'm not quite out of form."  
"That's why I didn't mention it before now." He glanced leisurely down her frame, calculating. She could get used to that expression, she thought. "But you don't train every day. Maybe a few times a week?"  
"I have class three times a week. It's my exercise and my dearest hobby."  
"Hm, yes, quite." he muttered.  
Elle sighed and sank back onto her feet. She'd lost him. She could hear him thinking. Measuring her muscle tone, body shape, who knew what else. Grasping her wrist, Jim extended her arm down and out from her shoulder, examining closely. Then he prodded the other- she raised it, slightly bent, above her head. She turned her left foot out and crossed her right parallel in front of it. Second nature- Forth position- en haut.  
"Pity you decided not to go professional." Jim commented lightly. "You could have been very pretty."  
She let her arm fall gracefully, brushing her fingers down his cheek. "I'm imperfect. I've been dancing since I was a child, but you've never seen me."  
"No." Jim agreed. "But you dance with every move. Every step. I've seen you. You're quite graceful- poised, even-" he curled up a smirk- "For a secretary." He brushed his lips across the wrist resting below his cheek, still smirking. "You've tried to scrub off the ink stains most diligently, love, but you ought to buy another product and save your poor hands the damage. It's doing you no good at all."  
"How dare you make fun of me, rude man." She leaned into him, whispering a chaste kiss over his jaw. "And you were doing so well."  
"Hardly- bit of a bad day for me. But don't pretend you don't like it."  
"James Moriarty, are you trying to deduce me or seduce me?"  
"Is there a bloody difference?"  
"Not at all."  
Jim bent close to her left ear and breathed, "So glad we understand each other."  
Her heart stammered. Damned tease.  
~  
He couldn't put it off any longer- he kissed her like a dying man suffocating. No- no, that wasn't it. Too stupid, too cliché. Like a new user denied a second taste of crack. Almost. Nearly. Heroin?  
Yes. Heroin. Just enough, at present, to set him into a high, to put sparklers into his blood and chill the everlasting shit out of him. Sebastian and logic and all forms of common sense were niggling worriedly at him to drop this woman- drop her from a window, preferably- and move on, before she became the object of obsession.  
Too late, he thought a little deliriously. He'd thought she was a little pretty shiny thing at first- but then that had been his first slip. With a wit hard and dry as a diamond, she'd gotten more interesting. And with such clever little fingers- she didn't paw or grasp or cling, like women usually did. No, she trailed her fingernails musingly down his scalp and into his jacket merely half interested, but wonderingly, as if she was inspecting a prospective purchase and finding it exactly to her taste.  
Elle sighed, paused, and moved to lavish more of her sweet kisses down his jaw and into his neck, wrapping her white arms around his ribs, positively burying herself into his buttoned jacket somehow- ouch, her fingernails, that was killing him, stop that, do it again-  
God, he was going to break something, holding back like this. But he had to. Addicting as she was becoming, she was a dangerous little bird to be taking home with him. After all, she wasn't so very far away from rejoining the flock, was she? As if he could convince himself otherwise.  
Apparently determined to survey every inch of him, within and without his suit, Elle trailed her free hand (the one that wasn't wreaking gorgeous havoc over his skin with her _fucking_ fingernails) over his chest, under his arm, over his hip, and into his pocket.  
"Oh," she murmured into his neck, surprised. Yes _oh_ , he thought, gripping a hand into her pretty hair, and pressing his mouth into her neck, _Now get your fucking hand out of there before you start getting clever with it, 'cause then I'm really going to-_  
Humming a meaningless tune low in her throat quite happily, Elle curled her fingers around a certain thing residing in his pocket very, very slowly, stretching his self-control to the breaking point. Forget him, he was going to break her tiny little matchstick body in half and then crumble into kindling directly behind her.  
"What-" she pecked his face quickly, whispering- "Have you got in your pocket, James Moriarty?"  
She pulled it out, inhaled, and made a deeply appreciative little hum. He looked up for a moment, to see what she was doing.  
She tore her eyes from it to grin at him. "Switchblade. Very pretty."  
"Hm." He managed not to sound as worked up as he felt, but at the first sound from his throat he watched her eyes lock onto his mouth and darken beautifully. Did his little bird have clever ears as well? Oh, that was useful to know. He must remember that.  
"It's a personal favorite of mine." he said honestly, watching her flick the knife open with interest- what was her curiousity with knives? Perhaps a history, perhaps a passing comment in a history lesson- could be anything. As for the knife, it was rather old, unfortunately. He ought to have gotten rid of it by now.  
"I knew you were a romantic." she teased lightly. "These are illegal."  
"You care about laws?"  
"I do happen to be in the employ of the British government." she said matter-of-factly, now using both hands to turn the knife and examine it with almost fond attention.  
"Only more reason for you not to care." He leaned down to kiss her again, but then froze, his hands firmly clench around her waist. The cold steel of the blade was being pressed into his cheek.  
She was smiling, gently pressing the flat of his own fucking knife into his skin, slowly gliding it down his neck and over his jugular vein smoothly, caressingly- like she was doing him a favor.  
"Are you going to cut me open and watch me bleed, sweetheart?" he asked quietly, more curious than anything else. He remained still. He could always swipe her tiny body down at a moment's notice- a single blow would do it.  
"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Elle smiled. Her voice lowered, became soft, melodic. _"Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight?"_ Slowly, she leaned forward and kissed the other side of the blade where it was pressing into his throat, and finished, _"Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?"_  
Her normal voice returned, if a bit throaty- "And you'd adore to do that to me."  
"How would you know?" he accused, gripping her waist still tighter. "You've never killed a soul in your life."  
"Hm!" she let out a tiny laugh. "You think so?" She leaned back, taking the knife with her. Entranced, he watched as she pressed his knife into her own skin, blade down on the palm of her hand. Achingly slowly, she dragged it across her white little hand in a straight line- the heart line- enough to leave a red trail behind, enough to pool blood- just a little- just enough.  
"True, maybe not with a knife." she said softly. "But I don't need you to tell me you want my blood on your hands." She pressed the fingers of her other hand over his throat. "Your heartbeat tells me so."  
Slowly, fascinated, he reached out to catch a wayward blood droplet on his finger. It burned him like acid, and he closed his eyes blissfully. He gestured for the knife. "You are quite the Lady MacBeth, aren't you?"  
"And you one shameless, Scottish king." She leaned her head on his shoulder (at least as high as she could reach it) and watched him carve a long line into his palm to match hers. He felt the catch in her breathing and smirked.  
"Please, let's not get blasphemous."  
"Why not? It's fun."  
"I know. But it's a bit early for that sort of thing, don't you think?" He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.  
Elle looked up at him questioningly, grey eyes molten to a gleaming silver.  
"Now my blood is indeed on your hands." Jim murmured dreamily. "And yours on mine. As it should be."  
Elle looked again at their hands- her left, his right, clutched together and just beginning to weep blood down their wrists. And she smiled.  
"Dance with me, Jim?" she asked lightly.  
"All night." he promised, wrapping his arm around her waist and beginning to turn, their bloody hands sealed tight. He was already dizzy, dangerously high.  
Sweet, harmless little ballerina- please. She was deadly. And he was definitely screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: My dears! Ohohoh, this chapter. Where to begin. First: it was just not coming together like I wanted it to, and therefore, the wait we all endured and the shoddy excuse for plot. Again. Seriously, I'm still not duly satisfied, and I rewrote it twice. I present it as filler material and beg your forgiveness- plot will return.  
> Second: Regarding warnings. I'll post warnings for blood/gore, abuse, violence, or anything else that may come up in the future deviations of the creative process at the beginning of the corresponding chapters. However, where Jim Moriarty is involved, he is to some extent his own warning. There is only so much one can do when one writes a sociopath as a main character.  
> xo, A  
> P.S. LOTS of symbolism in this chapter. The pendant, the blood/hands bit, the knife, Elle's flowers, more. Points and a high-five to anyone who works any out. Go on, you know you want to!


	10. Asylum

Until dawn came, or nearly, they danced. Slowly, intricately, turning in a calculated, unhurried waltz. She taught him in tiny sighs and movements she was thinking, feeling, dreaming. He taught her the most important thing she could ever learn to do when their lives revolved together--as she was told. Her body was a delicate force that only needed wielding, shaping, instructing. She followed him with ease and grace, as in everything she did. Only small touches, fractions of a pause were required to maneuver her where he pleased. The night was endless like this, silent except for footsteps, breathing, the whisper of lips against cheeks. He could have led her in circles forever.  
Dawn broke the fever and brought back the chill, however. She stopped swaying, dropped her hands to his chest. Smiled, of course, brought forth her perfect, silver-spooned manners. Thanked him for an incandescent night, but if he would excuse her, she had to work this morning.  
Drunk on her softness, her lovely pliancy, shy smile, and the itching burn of her blood still in his fingers, he had a lapse of judgement. He deduced that she was as high and floating as he was. They had danced on the same strange, shimmering plane, certainly, for most of the night, outside of the world, not quite within it. Her eyes were wide, shining, not sleepy in the least. He realized he was tired himself. He hadn't slept in--oh, a few days, he supposed, and her whispered words after such a long hush were jarring. He only nodded.  
  
Accordingly she stepped back a little and dropped him a flowing curtsy the Queen herself would have envied, fifty years ago, when such things even mattered. Her wheaten-gold head and bare, white shoulders bowed quite prettily, though, he had to admit. He liked the sight of it. It made him want to sink his teeth into that pale, perfect skin. When she rose again he made a mocking sort of incline with his head and shoulders in return, and she gave him a small, silent smile and farewell, with her fingers to her lips, extending them out to him, not quite far enough to reach. He seized her wrist, all delicate bones and fissures, so _breakable_ \--and pressed her airy kiss to his lips, staring into her wide, luminous, almost ethereal eyes. Easy to see how a man could let lost in those. Doe eyes. Starlit eyes. Break-me-into-pieces-and-roast-me-alive eyes.  
He let go reluctantly, a finger at a time, murmuring,  
  
"Later."  
  
An acknowledgement, a promise. He left her alone with the rising sun, just for that moment. A few hours, he told himself, and she would return to his arms where she belonged. It would only be a moment.  
  
In the space of that long moment, however, she slipped between his senses, took flight in the wind, and was gone.

_Mobile's dead, leaving it at the flat. Meet me there after work? x_  
  
Jim frowned at the screen, stretching his arm out over the edge of the bed to see the text better, squinting a little. Sent a few hours ago, presumably as she was about to leave. Not as if he would have had a chance to answer.  
  
Still, he smirked a bit, admiring her subtlety. Framed as a request, sent as an order. He didn't take orders. But he was very open to suggestions. He let his head fall back into the coverlet, tapping out a reply. The least he could do was play along.

"Look alive, Tiger, time to go." Jim smacked the sniper lightly around the head, jostling his focus from his laptop.  
  
Sebastian didn't scowl, but his glance was hard and calculating. He didn't move right away. Jim continued walking, picking up the car keys and throwing them up to catch them, bored. His days wanted for stimulation. Nothing was challenging--nothing was new.  
  
From behind him, Seb muttered, matter-of-factly and very nearly just to himself, "Time to pick up the little princess from school?"  
  
Jim halted, hands in his pockets. Turned, raising his eyebrows a little. Now this was interesting, at the very least.  
  
"Problem?" he asked lightly.  
  
Seb shut his laptop with a snap and stood, grabbing his jacket. "No."  
  
"I'm sensing a little resentment. Or is it jealousy?"  
  
"For that she'd need something I wanted, and she doesn't have. She's a spoiled Oxford brat, is all."  
  
"Is it all?" Jim watched Seb race down the steps and smirked, taking his time. "It's not that she's got the good graces of her upper crust daddy? His fondness? Affection? Love?" He got to the car and lifted his jaw, eyeing him, tongue in cheek. The sniper was tense, but not rigid enough. He pushed harder. "Not even that she's got _me_?"  
  
"She hasn't got you." Seb's fist shot out and gripped his tie, tightening the knot around his neck and almost lifting him onto his toes. "Nobody ever has you. You fiddle with them until you're bored, and you drop 'em like grenades and leave them to detonate themselves. That's it."  
  
"You seem to have gotten it all figured, haven't you?" Jim said softly. "But then you were always so _clever_."  
  
"She's a distraction. A phase. A _liability_."  
  
"She's a diamond mine of possibilities. Right now, _you_ are two breaths away from being the liability." He let loose a grin. "Now, let go of the fucking suit before I snap off your fingers and shove them down your throat."  
  
Seb dropped him, mildly disgusted-looking. Jim shrugged his shoulders lightly.  
  
"Better get a grip on that pin, Tiger. Quit fumbling and get on with it."  
  
His expression dark, Sebastian opened the car door with white knuckles and a sour look. "Get the fuck in the car, Jim. Don't play with my emotions."  
  
Jim gave him a withering look. "Then don't leave them hanging out for everyone to see. Put your big boy pants on, for God's sake. I've not the time to put up with you, nor the patience."

Twenty-five minutes later, Seb dug his hands into his pockets and whistled, almost smug.  
  
"Well," he said. "Looks like she's scrambling for somebody's attention. Bit desperate, if you ask me."  
  
"Not my attention." Jim crossed his arms thoughtfully. "Too direct. She's much too coy for something like this."  
  
"So she's toying with somebody else? Who?"  
  
"Who else? The only thing keeping the little thing down." Jim ran a finger down the counter and frowned at it. "Daddy dearest. He must have moved in for the kill. Tried to make her come back home."  
  
"I told you somebody would see you walking in and out. What are you going to do when they realize you're alive? They're going to, you know."  
  
"Something dramatic, no doubt, but let's get out of here before they've time to."  
  
Huffing, Sebastian left the bathroom, muttering curses.  
  
Jim stood still a moment longer, admiring the penmanship. Even, slanted, square letters in elegant cursive. No smudging, so tedious for the left-handed. On the mirror, in cheerful pink lipstain was written,  
  
 _I went somewhere nice,_  
 _Some call it Paradise_  
 _Otherwise call it asylum._  
 _I've been good_  
 _And done what you've said,_  
 _But when you find me_  
 _You'll see red._  
Then, signed in blood red lipstick,  
 _xx, E_  
  
God, she enthralled him to distraction.  
  
She covered herself demurely in lies and lipstick, armor so safe and so subtle that she herself almost believed it, in the ordinary, good girl she so wanted to be. But what about last night? A flick of his knife, and something innermost, dark and macabre had been exposed, a hidden gem, a different woman's raw potential laid before him like instructions in a book. Unflinchingly she put her open wound to his and he suddenly found himself breathless, unbelievably drawn to this, to her. He could see her entire life fall directly into place, beside his, entwined with it.  
  
He didn't believe in romantic bullshit, but fate was another story. Fate was longer than life, bigger than man. Fate wrote the histories of men, and all you could do about it was to keep turning page after bloody page, until your pages ran out. Fate never let anybody see their own epilogue. In short, she was a fickle bitch. But this was a new chapter that gave a sensual new promise to the potential of his life's novel. Hell, maybe she would pen his afterword.  
  
To him, the message was a riddle. To Elliot Spencer, it was the most terrifying, most awful of threats.  
  
Jim smirked, swiped his thumb through the blood red E. He could use one like her. She could be cunning, sly. She certainly wasn't afraid to hit her father where it hurt. He should definitely think about keeping this little bird around. She was clever enough already to know who to run to.  
  
 _Going to find you,_ he thought cheerfully, flicking off the light with a tissue. _And when I do, you're mine._


	11. Smoke and Mirrors

It was now Wednesday, and one of Seb's men confirmed that while Elizabeth had not returned to her flat, she was continuing to work for Holmes, arriving and departing in the same disgusting taxi, with no outward appearance of change.  
  
What else was there for him to do? He went to see her. Nothing was going to keep her from him now. Everything was against them, of course, and based on Seb's digging he could very well get blown up for stepping in on a Daddy-daughter quarrel, but that was a side note. He didn't much care. He liked the odds. It made his chest swell to think of it. They promised something eventful, at the very least.  
  
He had Sebastian drop him off outside, and ignored him impatiently when the sniper hesitated, leaning over the steering wheel to peer at him. He knew what to do. Every eventuality was prepared for. Nothing had been left out. And damn him, _he_ ought to know whether Jim could handle himself. He was more than ready for this.  
  
Because he was going to have to be very careful with this one. He couldn't quite get his fingers into her wiring, not yet. Oh, but he would, very soon. He had the upper hand, here, and damned if he wasn't going to use it.  
  
Bad job it was in a fucking basement, though.  
  
He descended the stairs into the basement slowly, each step giving a creaking protest at his weight. There was enough light to see, he supposed, but not for much else. How did she get anything done down here? It smelled like fresh sweat and old, cheap perfumes. Jim resisted scowling in disgust. She was so much better, surely, than this.  
  
Then he froze for a moment, putting on a dozy, absent smile and shuffling harmlessly to the side of the corridor as a small crowd of women and little girls began to file through the studio and into the narrow passage where he stood. Ten or so little creatures passed him in shimmering pinks and pastels, all of them with reddened cheeks and all of them escorted by rotund, self-important figures -- mothers and caretakers and nannies and whoever else cared for the useless, tiny things. He watched them surreptitiously. Upper middle class, most of them, he supposed, but he spotted one child with tiny stud earrings that sparkled white, even in this God awful light. Real diamonds, probably. So one wealthy family, at least.  
  
Whether it was a product of Elle's family connections or personal skill, it wasn't certain yet, but he approved. Rich clients, when served well and dependent on that service equaled connections, which were useful to have. Perhaps too useful for his purpose.  
  
One little tightly-knit band of young things looked back at him as he passed through, staring with wide, curious eyes and breathy whispers. Among them was the girl with the diamond earrings, who stared most obviously, and who raised her chin defiantly as he glanced at them. Skinny as a rail, with large, oceanic blue doe eyes, pink lips, and a cinnamon-colored bun the size of a tennis ball balanced precariously on her head, she stood in the middle of the other girls, who quickly looked away, nervously twittering.  
Jim raised his eyebrows, meeting the little dancer's eyes with dull amusement, wondering at her audacity. There were round, childlike lines that were present even her thin face, the lines that adolescence was beginning to sharpen into something, he supposed, that might eventually be like grace. That expression of defiant curiosity was remarkably familiar. She might become a lascivious young woman, yet.  
  
He smirked despite himself, and the girl's face pinkened and finally turned away, casting her alarmed glance somewhere behind him. He followed it, and immediately his smile slid away. The woman that must surely be the diamond girl's mother was standing directly in front of them. She was tall and quite fair, with matching cinnamon hair and a woebegone sort of face, the kind that's been shouted at a fair amount, he saw immediately, and was timid and awkward because of it. Not unpretty, he admitted, but that she was not the one to have earned the little girl's diamonds was obvious. Her dress, though fine and of an expensive, satiny green material, fit a little too loosely, to cover a body the owner was ashamed of. The woman's arms dangled awkwardly around her stomach, clutching her purse with pink hands. She was at the time of life that exuded faint alarm bells from within, warning that the milky skin would soon become flabby, wrinkles begin to set into place, if care was not taken. Rich husband (investment banker), approaching middle age faster than strictly necessary (pills, probably lots of pills), and if he wasn't mistaken...  
  
His eyes narrowed. The woman didn't see him, which, when he wanted to be noticed, was a feat in itself. Instead of following her pretty daughter out of the studio, her gaze and focus was totally fixed on something else. He flicked his eyes to the left, to watch the object of that heavy gaze.  
  
To be fair, how anyone could keep from staring was beyond him for an admiring second or two. As Elle rose fluidly from the iPod station situated on the floor in front of the mirrors, he saw that she hadn't had a proper dancing session, not yet. Her face was just barely flushed, a lovely glow he hadn't seen on her before. She was also free of her makeup, and only weeks ago it would have made her unrecognizable. Even without the accent of her lipstick, her mouth was expressive and smooth, at every moment waiting to pull into a smirk or a smile. Tiny little ringlets dangled like so many kisses over her neck from the loose strands that dared to creep from her bun, mingling in the damp sweat that the light exercise had given her. All of her glowed. Her limbs were relaxed and supple, more present, somehow, and even though she wore a suitable black dancing skirt over the black leotard and tights, it wasn't enough to keep him from absolute distraction for a few moments, a choked breath refusing to move from beyond his chest.  
  
He glanced back at the woman again, who was stuttering out a sentence, a silly, nervous laugh, a question, to which Elle replied smoothly, with perfect neutrality, in a tone which tells him that she has just repeated this announcement to the entire class. Jim's assumption locked quietly into place, and before the woman could come up with another question, Elle had turned her head and found him. Their eyes locked. For a moment or two she looked almost alarmed, as if caught off guard, but she recovered herself and slid into a wide, beckoning smile, eyes just a touch too wide. He could read it like so many words on a page.  
  
Oh, is that how she wanted to play it? Well, fine by him. He could feel himself softening around the edges, playing into the minor part she wanted him to play, but refused it. No, thank you. He would have a leading role if he had to cut throat to get it.  
  
"Hello!" Elle's smile was both accusing and amused. Her right wrist moved just slightly, opening towards him, hesistant. "I didn't expect to see you here."  
  
He took the offered hand tucked it into his arm, leaning forward to kiss her cheek lightly.  
  
"Hullo." He softened his tone a bit and smiled, wavering somewhere between love-struck fool and self-assured socialite -- he was in a suit, after all, and appearances must. "Expect the unexpected with me, you ought to know that by now, love."  
  
"I suppose I should, shouldn't I?" Elle turned her body slightly away from him, unable to slip gracefully out of his grip, which he tightened. Her skin was glowing with warmth, but her smile to the tall woman tightly polite. He wanted to laugh so badly he couldn't help but grin. The woman was staring at them with actual dismay, and he could almost feel Elle festering.  
  
"Vivi," Elle began brightly, when it was obvious that any struggling would only pinch her in a harder grip, "This is Richard. Richard, this is Vivienne Randall, a good friend of mine. Her daughter Jillian is in my summer intensive class."  
  
"Hullo," he says again. "Elizabeth's mentioned you, of course, delighted. Richard Brook." Jim grinned and extended a hand reluctantly, and the timid woman shook it, watching him with huge, guarded eyes. There was no flicker of recognition.  
  
"Pleasure," she said, her accent polished but only a couple of years old. New-new money. Investment banker husband, an unusually successful one, at that, and that was interesting. Oh, but abusive -- absent -- negligent.  
  
By the grip on her purse, she was just opening her mouth to ask where the hell he'd come from, or something along those lines, when a commanding,  
  
"Mum, you promised to take Celeste and me to the IMAX cinema!" cut through the space.  
  
Vivienne Randall winced, and looked at her daughter and her little friend with a slightly bewildered air. "Oh -- of course, darling. Go wait in the car with Martin, all right? I'll be right up. He's parked just outside."  
  
Jillian nodded. She turned to Elle and with a smile made a little drooping incline of her head, and with scarcely a "'Bye Miss Daniels!" she had fled away with her friend, making scarcely a noise, though they ran up the steps.  
  
Vivienne coughed a little awkwardly. "Jilly's not usually so, ah, impatient," she commented.  
  
"She's always very polite," Elle agreed. It was not flattery -- he could hear by her voice that it was true. Interesting. Why hadn't she taken the opportunity?  
  
"Perhaps she's shy," Jim suggested, blandly smiling. "It's probably never occurred that her teacher had a life outside of this studio -- jobs and lovers and so on. Children often do that, don't they." Immediately, Vivienne's eyes shot back to his, widening. "Then again," he went on, "Children don't realize very much about anything. Ignorant souls. Bless them," he added.  
  
Honestly, he would have been able to maintain a polite, harmless expression, had Elle not squeezed his arm hard and pointedly, he really would have. Her pinching was too much, however. He felt a slow smirk unfurl, and wasn't sorry to see Vivienne blush an affronted scarlet that clashed horribly with her green satin dress.  
  
"Well, I'd better -- they're very excited. Treat for Celeste's birthday, she's just eleven, you see--" She stopped, readjusting her purse, and turned to go, still flushed, barely managing a "Nice-to-meet-you" before flustering away on her shiny, tottering two-inch heels.  
  
"Bye, Viv!" Elle called quickly after her, a little stricken-looking herself. "I'll see you Sunday for coffee?"  
  
There was no answer. The door swung shut, and he let go of her arm, anticipating correctly that at the same time that Elle went to push him away impatiently it would be a perfect opportunity to grin at her glare, watch her flawless skin flush. He had a sudden longing to bend and catch her body between his hands and capture her lovely, scowling lips with his. God, only three days and he was already itching for a hit. He really was feeling reckless, lately.  
  
"How dare you interfere?" she snapped at him.  
  
"What have _I_ done?" He kept smiling, contented for the moment.  
  
"You know exactly what. She's important. I need her."  
  
"On your list of emergency contacts, that is. How long was it, then? The scandal? Her lecherous, adulterous affair with you?"  
  
Elle's expression faded into a pleased, if a little peevish, surprise. She folded her arms. "You got that?" She waved a hand in the air suddenly, dismissing her own question. "But of course you did. You tell me, then."  
  
"I'd say it was a fling, except she was rather forlorn after you, wasn't she? She wasn't one of your conquests, was she?"  
  
She did not flush, but she shifted uncomfortably, ever so slightly adjusting her weight. "Not exactly."  
  
It was Jim's turn to act pleasantly surprised. "Oh, is _that_ it! You were one of _hers_. Oh, love, that's--"  
  
"Stop it, you'll make me feel even more guilty than I already do. You know exactly what I did. I did a little digging into the name on her checks for Jillian when she entered the class, and I acted in my own best interests." Elle trailed off, glaring at the floor, her fingernails pressing into her arms.  
  
"You got sucked into your own scheme, didn't you?"  
  
Elle shifted again, almost a squirm.  
  
"How long?" he repeated, seriously.  
  
Elle shot a resentful look at him, but returned to staring thoughtfully at the floor. "Eight months. I thought -- well. It's taken me a lot of effort to get us to the place we are now. But it's quite tenative." Her gaze flicked up to him. "I'd appreciate you respecting that, if you don't mind."  
  
"Did you love her?" he asked.  
  
Wonderingly, she rocked her head slightly to the side, lips twitching once, as though that idea were funny. "No, of course not," Elle said, finally. Sliding out of his gaze half-heartedly, she moved away from him, towards the barre, where she rested her hands as she thought. The pose struck him as the same one he had admired at the Savoy, trying to deny her old-fashioned, undermined beauty, how much it had struck him.  
  
"I thought -- she was, if anyone, someone I wanted." Elle looked up into the mirror, meeting his eyes through it so that a little shock went through his limbs.  
  
She shrugged. "She listened, she was someone who did what I told her to. Someone useful, beautiful."  
  
"Don't worry, love," Jim said softly. "It does happen." _To the best of us._  
  
She met his look evenly, acknowledging it, not letting it in. Then she swiveled to face him again, one hand on the barre. "So," she said brightly, sweeping the other hand carelessly across the room. Her smirk was plastic. "Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. You've found me -- good. I assume you have questions for me?"  
  
"Elizabeth," he said softly, and stopped himself. Right then. To business. He slid his hands into his pockets and assessed her relaxed position, easy smile. "Let's have the technicalities first, then. Have you switched back to Daniels? Or would you prefer Miss Spencer?"  
  
Elle gave the impression of repressing the urge to roll her eyes. "I would prefer a name of my own, without the "miss," please. Besides, you and I are past formalities. If you need the reference you can call me Daniels. My mother's family isn't the fool that she is."  
  
"Formalities are what I deal in, my dear."  
  
She gave an acknowledging nod.  
  
Restless, he made a few paces down the room, watching his steps, half an eye on the mirror. "I am curious about your poem, actually. Am I correct in assuming it was a scare tactic directed at your father?"  
  
"Oh, yes, of course." And didn't she seem pleased about that? Jim smirked to himself.  
  
"As far as anybody but you knows," Elle was saying, "I'm still quite alive and quite happily at home. I've been texting an old friend who's still in my father's outer circle to tell him I've been seeing someone and staying often at his place. He'll get the message along to my father."  
  
Jim looked up sharply.  
  
For once, Elle was amused enough to grin. She had two tight rows of small, even teeth. "No, Jim. As stupid as I might be for it, you're my secret. If my father knew I was flirting with one of his rivals he would probably execute you by fiery stake. If he could catch you out, that is."  
  
He ran his tongue over his top teeth thoughtfully and tilted his head back, watching. "Would you burn with me?"  
  
Elle demurred, flashing another quick smile that warmed him over like a lit flame. "If I had no better place to be."  
  
That smile prompted him, made his guts shiver, and he was almost at the point of going to her, but -- no, not yet. Not yet. But on his next round of steps he paced slightly closer, enjoying the feeling of her eyes on his every move.  
  
"So," he went on, "You are -- in limbo, let's say. How do you plan to break the news?"  
  
"Oh, well, that's quite simple. I'll go back to my little flat, turn on the faucets, wipe out the dust, and I'll walk away. I'll leave Remy to stew for a bit, let him worry. Then, when he goes to the house and tells them..." Elle shrugged, unsatisfied. "They'll see the poem, the flat, and they'll not see me."  
  
"You're quite kind to your friends. He'll probably get a nice pat on the head for letting you off yourself. Perhaps a promotion."  
  
Elle shrugged indifferently, and Jim laughed, strolling forward and finally letting himself close in on her space, her air, her breathing, her scent. "You shouldn't burn bridges that might be reused, doll."  
  
" _Doll?_ " Elle repeated coolly, raising her eyebrows and looking up at him, unimpressed. "Do I look like a plaything to you?"  
  
He made a point of running his eyes down her lithe body, wrapped in cotton and polyester and nylon, all black, right down to her soft dancing slippers. He opened his hands in invitation and lifted the offered fingers almost to his lips, but not quite. Her eyes were very light, very grey and very nearly wary, but he couldn't get out of them.  
  
"You look almost too good to be true," he said. "New, young, playful, charming, naive, indifferent, incredibly sexy."  
  
"Dolls are sexy?"  
  
"Mine is."  
  
She didn't smile or laugh, but merely looked at him, testing his self-control with her steady, open stare. It was just short of unsettling.  
  
Jim dropped her hands. Touching obviously wasn't helping. "Your father's never going to let you off the hook so quickly."  
  
"Then what do you suggest?"  
  
"Well..." He leaned forward, almost but not quite grazing his lips over her cheek, "Most deceased people have bodies they leave behind... Yours is still warm. Quite warm."  
She turned her face slowly, her eyes falling shut, letting him pause and breathe a torrid breath at her ear. "Yes?"  
  
"It sounds as if you plan to simply turn into dust. No, no, no, darling. The simpler the better, but you've gone much too minimalist. Common mistake. For this eventuality, you'll need a body."  
  
Elle turned back her head so that they were suddenly nose to nose and ran an unvarnished fingernail down his throat, smiling. "Are you offering me one?"  
  
 _Damn_ it. "Perhaps. Would you like one?"  
  
"For now, I'd like to know what your other suggestion is."  
  
"Well..." Jim paused, toying with one of the curls at the nape of her neck. "If you really want to disappear, you could dance with the dead man walking."  
  
"And hide in your shadow?" Her nose wrinkled.  
  
Jim snorted. "Better mine than _his_."  
  
"That job is what's keeping me alive, you know."  
  
"Only just. Why would you want to survive when you can live?"  
  
"With you?" Elle leaned back, incredulous. He felt her pulse quicken suddenly and paused. Now this was a careen around a corner he'd not quite been expecting from her. He could have winced as she began,  
  
"You want me to live with you, that's what you're implying, and that's ridiculous. I'm not your toy and I'm not your mistress either, so you can just take that idea and--"  
  
"Do you want my help or not, Elizabeth? Tell me, what _are_ you going to do if I say no?" Jim asked shortly, cutting her words short.  
  
She almost started. She crossed her arms over herself again, glaring at him as though he'd been audacious. Probably had been. Didn't care.  
  
"What is it that you do for Mr. Mycroft Holmes?" he asked. "The Ice Man"?  
  
Elle remained pale and silent, watchful and defensive. Her arms crossed tighter, and he was again reminded of how little, very little effort it would take to break that lovely, dainty frame, and how impossible it seemed to be to shatter the heavy, watchful gaze.  
  
"It's arranging things, yes?" he prompted. "Putting people into their proper places? Being the point of contact. The illusionist. Why couldn't you do the same for me? You ought to be good if Holmes wants you. Sebastian's good at it, but he's -- struggling. People think that they can have a bit of fun now that I'm gone--" He paused especially to roll his eyes -- "And they're searching for the new puppet-master. Some of them are beginning to think that it's my sniper. He's too well known, people fear him -- but nobody knows you, love. Nobody but him and me." He sunk his hands into his pockets again, eyes narrowing. She hadn't moved once.  
  
"Be my voice," he said finally, once the silence had drawn out for a few seconds. "The light casting my shadow. If you want a cover, protection against Daddy, this is as good as you're likely to get, my dear. This is my offer."  
  
She turned away, clutching her arms, her spine very straight. She walked a few slow steps forward and was quite still, and he fancied he could hear her fluttering heart, the only movement in the long room.  
  
For a few moments, he let her think it through. It was after all a weighty decision. But then again, he was Jim and impatience was in every atom, and so he moved, slowly, wonderingly. When he reached her he kept his hands to himself, though he didn't want to. Her eyes were open, her fingers to her lips as though in prayer, and she was thinking so deeply that even he knew better than to disturb such thought. She wouldn't have seen him even if he'd shouted. So he waited.  
  
It wasn't long, but it was altogether ages before she let her hands fall and her deep eyes find him again. They were clear, starry, more open than he had ever seen them. Something had finally given. He started. He could see all of her. He was seeing _Elle_ \-- frightened, clever, defensive, careless and selfish, ambitious and ladylike and so long repressed and restrained that she had been broken in two. The pieces of her stared at him, refracted.  
  
"Your offer doesn't change things much," she said quietly. "Switching one master for another, and now another. Why is working for you so different from living with my father? Why better than working for Mycroft? At least right now I have the choice to come and go as I please."  
  
Jim shook his head slightly, his voice low, persuasive. "You're mistaken. If you think Mycroft is going to let you go so easily, that is. You may advance rather quickly, relative to his other pupils, but you'll always remain right where he wants you. Under the regulations, under the rules, the laws, the ones above you. Not much better than at home."  
  
"At home I was relegated to nothing more than _meat_ ," Elle scowled. "I solved a few little messes for him, but at the end of the day I was just the bait to attract the boys. Sexist pig." She bit at her lips, cutting back the words she didn't want him to see. More poured out. "He was always watching them, watching me, hoping to get back to the top. Always hoping that someone bigger, stronger, richer would favor me and make him as powerful as he used to be."  
  
Jim frowned. How desperate. How very stupid. What an impossible waste. Why shouldn't an intelligent daughter, perfectly cultured and with the ability to infuse modern practices with old-fashioned ideals, beautiful, willful, and lethal take the reins? There was something deeper there, surely. She wasn't telling him all of it, and yet he could tell that today wasn't the day for grasping at that last piece to the impossible puzzle.  
  
"He's got half his wish, at least, the old fool," he murmured, fingering the gun in his pocket.  
  
Elle scoffed quietly. "You're interested now. In a few weeks you'll get bored of me and stop caring. I'll be another ornament. Just a secretary. You're too clever for me. I could handle _you_ \--" she shot him a glare, daring him to contradict her -- "But you'll get tired of it much too quickly. You like to play games, Jim, dear, and I am not a shiny new toy for you to break and cast away."  
  
He smothered a laugh, leaning his head back in positive delight. Oh, too precious, too perfect. He loved it when everything aligned so perfectly. "Oh, darling girl," he said, his laugh bubbling to the surface. "Don't you worry. I'll take _such_ good care of you."  
  
He looked down at her again, a resolve suddenly steadying him, her sparkling eyes cracking holes into him. She really looked irresistible, in all of her facets. Defensive, toying, gentle, harsh, serious, open -- all just faces to wear, zipped up behind a mouth as close fitting as a silk dress. He thought of the diamond girl's mother again and his jaw clenched.  
  
"You'll be so well taken care of it will be as if you aren't cared for at all. The decision remains yours, darling. I want you to make it ever so carefully."  
  
She actually rolled her eyes this time, returning to his favorite, sweetly sarcastic smile. "Of course I'm going to make it carefully. Do you expect me to do it now, just like that?"  
  
"I was actually hoping you'd make it over the next few days, after I spoil you a bit more. Coffee? Or, rather --" he checked his watch. It was later than he'd anticipated. Seb would be pissing himself. "Dinner?" he suggested. "There's a lovely vegan place up at--"  
  
"No."  
  
He paused, raising an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"  
  
"I said no. Absolutely not," Elle said, her smile somehow defiant and reserved at the same time. "Maybe you won't try the same restaurant or pretty words as last time, but the motions aren't lost on me, love. You're not going to lure me back to your place with tofu and red wine and blankets tucked in the boot. Definitely not. Oh, don't look so put out--" she flashed a killer smile at him as he began to scowl. Suddenly she was leaning quite close to him, the fingers of both hands toying at his pockets. "I'll make dinner. You'll like a Reisling, right?" Her lips were tantalizingly close, and then the grasp on his impulse to rip, tear, seize, _own_ was slipping, slipping --  
  
"I'm overly fond of a sweet wine," she whispered, "But I have others if you prefer it."  
  
Jim nodded once, stiffly. He shot in the dark for something to say, his head spinning. "You own the place?"  
  
"Real estate is supposed to be good investment," she said. Deliberately, her eyes playful, Elle fished his hand out of his pocket and snuck her fingers between his. A tugging sensation alerted him that she was leading him out.  
  
All he could possibly think of then was that the only preference for wine he had at that moment was for the taste of it on her naked lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that I'm only able to write productively when everything piles into a mountain of stress and deadlines on top of my head. Bad thing? Probably. HOWEVER.
> 
> Man, I wish I could draw. Writing about Jim and Elle having a power play/flirting session in her ballet studio is great, don't get me wrong, but _dang it_. *Shameless self promo* If anybody feels up to melting away finals week stress with a drawing, I would puddle??
> 
> (Yes, puddle is now a verb.)
> 
> But honestly, I puddle into a glob of happiness with every like, view, comment, and kind word of encouragement. Your encouragement has really kept me going as far as my writing this past year, guys. Thank you! ♥
> 
> xo, A


	12. Pas de Deux

Elle led him first upstairs, to the main part of the building, and then through a locked door and down a hallway and into another locked door and up a staircase into a narrow enclosed space that was completely dark. She let go of his fingers to kneel and wriggled a cord into place, lighting the place into a glistening dimness that sparkled with fairy lights.  


It was small, but it was comfortable, she felt, and of course pristine -- no dust or clutter or disorder of any kind. Her low bed was tucked away in one corner, a fluffy grey down quilt tucked neatly around the mattress, and on top of it were bed pillows she could sit against to read on as a multipurpose couch. A small bookcase replaced the space where a telly could have been, and another shelf held rows of assorted wooden crates, one of which she went to, wriggling it out with care, accompanied by the sound of clattering bottles. She set it on the little table in the center of the room without looking at him.  


"There we are," she said as lightly as she wanted to be feeling. She crossed to a cupboard by the little kitchenette and retrieved two wine glasses, setting them by the crate. She waved her hand carelessly, and turned for the only other door in the room, the toilet. "Take your pick. I'm going to change."  


"Why?" he asked. She could hear him almost smirking, and felt a hot stone fall into her belly. She didn't turn. Pursing her lips together in an amused sort of smile, she replied simply, "Because I'm in my leotard. Because we'll both like it better if I'm not."  
"Indeed we will," he said softly, and her stomach sizzled. Hiding this behind a prim smile, Elle closed the toilet door behind her and leaned heavily against the wood, willing herself not to tremble.  


_Don't think about it_ , she scolded herself, unpinning her skirt and beginning to peel off her slightly sticky leotard with a deep sense of relief. Even though she loved having it on, taking it off always gave a sense of cool liberation. Her skin could breathe again.  


She wished she had time to shower. The light sweat of three ninety minute classes had accumulated over her body, and she wanted a long, long soak in some very hot water to think things through.  


But there wasn't time enough. She had known even before meeting him that Jim Moriarty was an important man. Important men hated to be kept waiting. All the better to be kept waiting, the fools, she thought, but she had the distinct feeling that this one would come barging in here no matter what she did to the lock.  
Some deep part of her felt displaced, off put slightly as she slowly changed clothes, as if she were watching herself dress from a mirror she didn't want to see. Her pulse was trembling with terror and in anticipation. What was she even doing? What if tonight was the night he finally got bored?  


Her fingers stumbled as she pried out the pins from her hair and put them away with her hair things in the crate under the sink. She teased absently at her hair, only half aware of herself. Should she wear something more? Something less?  


She glanced in the mirror, watching grey eyes flash, shiny and wide. She pursed her lips. Lipstick? No, no, of course not. It was so hot, it would melt right off. Don't be stupid, why was she so nervous? She left the bathroom abruptly, refusing to give herself any more time to think.  


Good thing, too.  


It was suddenly much too hot to breathe. She almost sputtered. He removed his jacket and arranged it over a chair, rolling up his shirt sleeves in precise measure to just below sharp, elegant elbows, loosened his tie so that it settled, relaxed, at his collar bone, exposing a long line of pale throat. Shit, why did the tousled suit look have to be such a good one on him?  


He turned from inspecting her bookshelf and crossed to her in a couple of slow, almost swaggering steps, handing her a wineglass and an arch expression. His eyes repeated the movement they had done downstairs -- a slow, easy crawl from the top of her head down to her bare feet, flicking back upwards to her face, to drill warm eyes into hers and sop her belly with honey.  


"Bit hot," he might have said, reading her thoughts. She honestly couldn't tell, her head was buzzing. She took a small, grateful sip of the wine, swallowing hard, noting with approval that it wasn't the Reisling, it was the Pinot -- thank God. It was a new bottle, but she'd need most of it to handle this night.  


"Beg pardon?" she said as casually as possible, trying to glance at him without crumbling.  


"I asked," he said slowly, a smile playing on his lips so that her heart jumped, skittish, "If you were so hot up here."  


"Not now, no." Lie. Then she caught him glancing at her long T-shirt again and laughed aloud. Part of her steadied for a moment, sure of something. No matter what, he was still a man _somewhere_ inside that intricate clockwork. Men she could handle.  


"You can stop trying to sneak a look," she said. "I've got shorts on underneath. Here." Elle handed him her glass and gathered up the side of her shirt, pulling the long hem into a tight knot that she tucked under the shirt to reveal the little grey sweat shorts. There. She looked up at him again, smug to be on the upper hand.  


If she had expected him to look sheepish or caught out, he didn't. If she had wanted him to quit staring, he did not. Actually, his gaze deepening, he slowly took her wineglass in long, dexterous fingers to balance both glasses in one hand with a gentle tinkling sound.  


Almost thoughtfully, he reached for her, splaying the fingers of his other hand over her hip, stroking his thumb over the splice of skin over her shorts, near her belly where her hipbone peeked through, his touch making the skin blush.  


Suddenly the pressure increased, and both of them stepped half a pace nearer, bodies almost touching, his forehead resting on hers. His eyes, so powerfully focused, so warm -- she didn't know whether to run or to remain here, paralyzed, flustered, entranced. Her brain felt like it was glitching.  


"Funny," he commented after a few moments. His thumb traced over her hipbone again. "You look warm. You feel warm."  


She couldn't reply for a moment. No words came -- no snarky reply, no prim sigh, no clever laugh. She just gawked at him. Stared at him and ached, cracking with the effort of holding everything back.  


She knew that if he kissed her now, that would be the end of it. But then, holding back from things she wanted -- that was old hat by now, wasn't it.  


"Actually no," she whispered, "Though I do feel a bit hungry."  


"Then by all means, let's have dinner. Can't have you swooning." He looked amused, but there was a dark edge to his words (can't have you swooning _yet_?) that prompted her to duck under them, moving swiftly to the tiny kitchen, opening her cupboards and washing her hands rather than meet the unsettling promises in his eyes.  


Behind her, his feet were immediately restless, shifting from one to the other like a clock's pendulum. Plus she could feel his eyes on her back, watching her pull out the cutting board from a shelf, take out the cheese and the tomatoes, and self-consciousness -- the unpleasant kind -- crept up her skin.  


She could ask him to go downstairs for the forgotten iPod station, (maybe he liked classical? Probably) but she paused to swallow a giggle at this idea. Though she gladly would, sending Jim Moriarty on errands just felt ...off. Speaking of which, her stomach lurched then, and she felt the kitchen sway a bit. _Shit._  


"Did you neglect to eat today?" Jim asked casually, hopping onto the counter beside her and popping a cherry tomato into his mouth.  


She laughed at him. "Never you mind," she said, catching her breath after a moment. "Look at you, sitting up there like a child planning mischief."  


"Were you ever one of those?" he asked, offering back her wine glass.  


She took a gulp and followed it with a bite of cheese before going back to her slicing. She leaned to the right and pulled out a box of raspberries, sliding them towards him. 

The know-it-all was right -- with the nerves of the day she _had_ neglected to eat. "Everyone is a child sometime."  


"Perhaps -- but not always in the right order." He plucked a raspberry and poked it into her mouth when she began to reply. "Now, tell me. Were you one of those charming little pink models of daughterly obeisance like the ones I met downstairs?"  


Elle curled her tongue around the berry and chewed, thoughtful. To preserve a few more seconds of thought, she took another slice of the cheese and bit into it, staining the sweet berry taste with creamy bitterness.  


"I was a model everything," she said. She lifted her hand and pressed a cheese slice to his lips, followed as soon as he accepted it by a berry. "At least, that's what I tried to be, because it was what my parents wanted."  


"Practically perfect," Jim murmured, reciprocating with a cherry tomato, a bit of cheese. He pressed the thumb that had pressed the food to her mouth to his lips, his eyes locked on hers, as if he wanted to share the taste -- either of the tomato or her lips. "Would you call that a proper childhood?"  


She quickly looked back down. Her legs were trembling and she knew what that meant. She hadn't felt this way in a long time and it made her skittish, shy as well as excited. "I suppose not. Now that you put it that way, I suppose I never was." She swallowed and gripped her knife tighter as she finished the block of cheese, almost afraid to ask but curious all the same. "And you? Were you ever a child?"  


His eyes were dark. "I'll leave you to guess. After all, we do have business to attend to..." He slid off the counter and rested one hand over hers, slipping his fingers under hers with a swift confidence, slowly working the knife from her hand. "Don't we?"  


She was pursed her lips and stared up at him, silent. So much for time.  


"Have you thought any more on my offer?"  


Her throat tight, she nodded, tried to clear her thoughts. "I have questions for you."  


"You'd be an idiot if you didn't."  


"How much pay?"  


Jim laughed. "Getting straight to the heart of it, aren't you? Very good." He cast the knife carelessly to the side, and shifted his weight back, sliding a berry between her lips. "As much as you care for, darling." His thumb swept across her lips again, his gaze heavy.  


"How much?" she pressed. "And what exactly will I be paid _for_?"  


"Hm," Jim mused, narrowing his eyes. "Hard to say. Salary, probably. I pay Sebastian by the job, but of course, he doesn't bother to check his bank account any more."  


"Why not?"  


"He doesn't need to. He hardly buys anything, and when he does, what I give him more than covers anything he might want."  


Elle looked at her feet, biting down a sudden smirk.  


"I know what you're thinking: that given free rein, you could make a dent, and I'm sure you might. With another man's money. But not mine."  


"I was actually thinking what a marvelous sugar daddy you think you'll be."  


A laugh, deep and rich, one that made her legs tingle. He lifted his fingers to her chin, lifting her gaze to him as he grinned. "If you're so very set on that arrangement, I'm sure you need not work at all."  


Elle batted his hand away impatiently (it compromisingly slid down to her collar). "Of course I want to work. Work is my life. How else am I supposed to keep sane?"  
Then, feeling his eyes heavy on her for that comment, she fed him another raspberry, avoiding his gaze but unfortunately realizing with a pang how very accessible his lips were, from this height. Curious and unable to resist, she traced them with her fingers, internalizing their sweet bow shape, the pale pink color, like the end of a new pencil. She remembered the chaste kisses they had shared before and remembered their potency, their electrifying power. She wondered if it would feel the same on her neck, her belly, her breasts. His fingers were all the time slowly stroking her neck and she mirrored him, feeling the uneven prickle of stubble on his jaw and shivering. He swallowed the berry, and she met his gaze, her voice low.  


"What would you have me do?"  


He cleared his throat, and broke away to retrieve her glass. He offered it to her lips as he had done the berries, prompting her to drink. She curled her fingers over his and sipped, flicking up her eyes when he spoke. "Many things, Elizabeth. I don't know that you'd care to do all of them."  
She said nothing, the wine warm and sweet on her tongue. Responding to the dare in her eyes, he continued,  


"I need someone who can tidy the strings I need to pull, and store away the ones I don't want. You and Sebastian would be put in charge of cutting away the tangles, the unraveled bits, threading in the new with the old so that they cooperate together. You understand?"  


Elle put the glass to his lips and half smiled as he drank. "Yes. ...Jim, you really want me to be the person to do this for you? Me, of all people?"  


He finished off the wine and motioned for her to put it aside. "I do," he said simply. He bent his forehead to hers, one hand curled around her waist, the other slowly combing through her hair. Her heart was frantic, desperate to be touching him, to feel his lips, to bite, to be bitten, and yet could she, _could she_?  


His voice was low, soft, so alluring. "You, and no other. For all your diplomatic edging around the subject, my darling, understand this: say yes, and you will be protected, respected, and erased, just as you wish. Say yes, and be mine alone. Give yourself to me, seize this chance and run with it. It won't be offered to you again."  


"Then--" she whispered, sliding her trembling fingers down his tie and back up again.  


"Hm?" he murmured. His warm hand slid up her back, and she felt lips at her temple. Her heart leapt to her mouth, and she squeezed her eyes shut.  


"No," she blurted.  


Jim's movements froze. He took a step back, and she forced herself to look at him. He seemed very still.  


"No?"  


"No. I can't." She swallowed the numb lump in her throat and said, "I think you ought to leave."  


If, she thought, he were like any other man, he would have turned purple and started to curse her out. _Tease. Priss. Frigid bitch._  


But he didn't. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. Just like that, he turned from her, picked up his jacket, and strolled for the door, cool as you please. As nonchalant as though he'd forgotten an appointment he'd already made, one that she'd been keeping him from.  
Elle blinked. Seconds expanded, and her breath suddenly hurt. No, but it couldn't be that simple. Out of her life, as quickly as he'd appeared. All that intrigue. All that warmth. 

That shivering fear that sent aches up her spine and kept her awake and electric, night after night.  


A weight suddenly compressed on her chest, and before she had fully decided her feet were propelling her forward.  


"James," she called.  


But the sight of him standing there in her doorway, turning to look at her with nothing but a cold stare made pride boil up in her throat, and her face set into an equally chilly expression. With as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances, she took her purse from a chair and and pulled out his switchblade. She'd swiped it from him, the night he scarred her with it. Yet, before she handed it over she felt compelled to look at it again. It was so beautiful. With one hand, she flicked it open, watching the blade shine with something like affection. Her eyes traveled over the old wood, the careful metalwork. An exquisite piece, really. Made for Jim's possession. It could be beautiful while it killed you.  


She flipped the blade into her hand and offered it to him, handle out, pressing her lips together. Let him take it. Let him go. It was the way of things. The way things should be.  


He reached out, took it, staring deeply into her eyes as he did so. Suddenly his grip was firm around her fingers, the switchblade pinioned between their hands. Elle stiffened.  


His back bent, eyes closing. He was bowing to her, she realized in shock, pressing his lips to her cold fingers. One last dance. A goodbye.  
She gripped his fingers hard, then, feeling the scar his blade had made in her flesh burn. Wait. Just wait. Call her selfish, call her stupid, this was too good to let go. She wasn't afraid to die, but that didn't mean she had to wait for it. Just the sight of him made her bones ache. She was more afraid to be left alone without him.  
_Is that me burning?_ she thought. Was it him? Either way he felt it, and glanced up, watching her lips melt from a tight, nervous line to parted twin gates, open, wanting.  


Jim narrowed his eyes slightly, went to pull away, take his grip on the knife. Elle tugged him back, guiding his hand--and the blade--to her throat.  
He stared at her a moment, his cello brown, impossibly deep eyes the only thing she could see as they bloomed suddenly black. The pressure on her neck increased, and his jaw set. The blade cut her, and she felt a trickling down her neck. But no pain. Just a sting, and relief, along with some residual nerves and a little joy as Jim scowled and claimed her mouth with his, sliding his tongue between her teeth and his fingers into her hair roughly, as though daring her to send him away again.  


She didn't. Stupid man, he was so _stupid_ , so sodding full of himself, pretentious and rude and violent, and she wanted him. God, how she wanted. He could kill her and cut her up into tiny pieces, and at the moment she just might get a kick out of that. How could she feel all of this at once? His mouth was sending fire through her veins and she was just breathing it in, letting it burn her clean.  


He suddenly growled low and violently in his chest, first shoving her backwards until her back smashed against solid wall, then wrenching her legs apart to grind a knee between them. She vaguely heard the door slam shut. His tongue found ingenious places to explore along her neck, lapping up the blood, and she gasped down what would have been a pathetically loud moan by gripping and pulling on his shirt as hard as she dared--she wasn't quite far gone enough to shred the thing.  


He yanked off her shirt as she tried to fumble unsuccessfully with his shirt buttons. He solved that problem quickly by tearing that off, too, allowing her to run eager fingers over his lean, wiry chest, free of hair and pale, as pale as milk. _Perfect, perfect, perfect,_ she thought, digging in her nails as he gave a particularly low groan that vibrated in her head and made her stomach drop out of the exercise altogether.  


Her shorts were around her ankles now, and his fingers were teasing up, up, from her crook of her knee around the inside of her thigh, never quite reaching. He nipped at her bottom lip and let go, pressing their foreheads together, commanding softly,  


"Look at me."  


Elle squirmed. She could hardly keep a hold of herself with her eyes closed. Impatient, the flat of Jim's palm smacked hard against her bum, and she gasped, startled into seeing. His beautiful eyes were the color of dark, burning coal at the pit of a wood fire, and his breathing seemed nearly as labored as hers, though he smirked.  


"I want those lovely eyes open when I do this," he murmured, brushing his fingers against her panties gently. She shuddered. Just the knuckles, just enough sensation to make her knees wobble.  


He grinned, and repeated the motion. Her lip was nearly bleeding from her teeth's grip on it, and as his fingers swiped against her _there_ a third time she let out a keening whine. He had to give her more than this.  


"I fucking hate you," she moaned, arching for more touch and getting nowhere, trapped against the wall.  
He laughed breathlessly. "You ought to, but you don't," he crooned softly, suddenly flicking a finger against her clit so that she cried out.  


" _Hate_ you," she cried with every firm, precise flick, getting wound tighter, tighter, by now embarrassingly wet. She dug her nails into his shoulders. "Jim!"  


He lifted her bottom up and she wrapped her legs tight around him, finally--nearly--falling into place the way she wanted, his hard length still fully dressed against her. He wrapped his arms around her bone-crushingly tight, lifting her from the wall and away. Who cared where? she thought, her mouth glued to his, her fingers deep in his warm hair. 

The knife was hot, still pressed against her bare skin, like an extension of his hand, the connection between their bodies.  


Half a moment later he dropped her onto her bed in her darkening little flat and began hurriedly shucking off his shoes. Elle sat up for barely enough time to unhook her bra and fling it across the room before he was back for her, kissing and biting across her flesh, leaving angry red marks that only stoked her higher.  


" _No,_ " she said firmly, when he tore off her knickers and his eyes threatened to wreak havoc there with lips and fingers, "Need you, _now._ "  


He glanced up for just a moment with bemused, blazing eyes, but by then the world had narrowed and nothing else mattered but getting him inside her. She reached forward, eyes never leaving his, and stroked his bulge gently, which twitched with promise. Cords of muscle stuck out on his neck, his nostrils flared, but his moan was low, and so soft she only knew it was there because she'd just pressed her lips insistently into his pale neck. Damn him, he was irresistible.  


After helping him unzip, she tried to wriggle forward, to coax them together, but Jim pushed her back forcefully, shoving down his trousers and pants and crawling up to meet her, dropping warm kisses up her skin as he went. Breathless and forever impatient, he shoved her back into the bed, pressing something into her hand. Somewhat relieved he'd managed to cover all the bases, Elle curled her fingers around him and inhaled slightly with surprise as Jim hissed into her ear.  


"You--" she tried to articulate, without success.  


"Yes. I sorta like you, darling," he breathed, choking out a grunt as she rolled the condom on.  


Then he moved, and she was felled to the dark earth like a star from the sky. 

Her expression was enough reply. God, she looked ready to explode. But not yet. She'd asked for it. Demanded it, actually. Grasping one ankle with one hand, hooking a leg around his shoulder with the other, Jim found he could lean so far forward, even with her legs to brace him, that he almost fell. _Fuck, this woman,_ he thought, almost in awe, almost in desperation.

She was so flexible that her legs could bend completely parallel with her body, which meant he could reach down and kiss her scream as he thrust hard into her, slow at first, almost reverently, before picking up to a rhythm that had her gasping, tears pricking at her eyes. No matter. He bent and kissed them away, unable to remember a time where he'd done that before, or been in a position where he even could.

He wasn't going to last long with the expressions struggling across her face, now twisted in ecstasy, now little sobs, now strangled awe at the things he had done and was doing to her. He bent lower, opening her legs wider, thrusting as deeply as possible, biting her sweet, white skin where he could. _Fuck_ her nails, _fuck_ , how the _fuck_ was she so _tight?_

All at once, within seconds or hours, he wasn't sure -- she gave a ripping half cry, half sob, clenching so hard around him that he was surprised to have not come yet, was so close, so _ready_ \--

All it took after that was a single word, falling in awe from her red, perfect lips. A single, almost petulant " _Jim,_ " and he shuddered, white and purple and blue lights swelling and popping into his vision, a sudden, single tsunami wave of pleasure and exhaustion sweeping over him, collapsing onto her soft, bony body. He felt close to passing out. The feeling of her stuttered breathing, her quivering heartbeat, her fingers tight over his scalp, lulled him further. Fuck. If he could just stay here.

For a few moments, there was only the sound of their heartbeats reluctantly returning to normal. He rolled over, and she wrapped her arms around his elbow, resting her head on his shoulder.

Words in his head. He whispered them:

"Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves  
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,  
And slips into the bosom of the lake:  
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip  
Into my bosom and be lost in me."

Elle smiled as she smoothed a stray lock on his forehead back into place. "I must be good if I've got you reciting Lord Tennyson."

"Aren't you just a _good_ little girl of letters," he replied, drily.

She grinned. "I'm sorry, did I ruin your moment of dark ambiguity? You'll have to reach further into obscurity, darling. Try Cowper, next time. He was Irish, wasn't he?"  


He laughed shakily, his breathing mellowing slowly. Then he fell asleep, fingers entwined in the silvery hair of his new lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Disclaimer: "Now Slips the Crimson Petal," correctly attributed to Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is the sonnet incompletely listed in this chapter. Also, Cowper was English.)
> 
> 5 April 2017 update:
> 
> Hello darlings. Did you miss me? It's been a while, but you didn't think I would *leave* you, did you? Maybe you did, but I will woo you back to me. I've got my wooing pen and everything (it's a super nice gel one with a needle tip).
> 
> For those of you who may have found me on FF.net, this chapter will be familiar. To those to whom it is new: please enjoy. I really don't know how it got left out. (Though, thinking back, it was probably AO3's formatting, which I'm locked in eternal combat with, ugh.) I would love to know what you think.
> 
> To those who might find this "update" repetitious, fear not. I have big things brewing. So big that I'm liable to tell you all about them in a minute, so I'm finishing this chapter note up quickly before I spill major beans. (Although I might be induced to slip beans through private message. We'll see.)
> 
> As always,  
> xo, A.


	13. Hello, Goodbye

He awoke to a woman in blue, a halo of gold, and a burning underneath his ribs. It was hot. He blinked a few times, half sure he was dreaming. The vision wavered, or perhaps that was his head. He'd seen this a few times before, but never with this clarity. He worked his throat, which was dry.  
  
" _Ave Maria_ ," he muttered out of ancient habit. The words tasted like chalk in his mouth. Dust, where once there had been water. " _Gratia plena, Dominus tecum._ "  
  
The vision brought a splotch of red to her lips and made a sharp crunching sound, studying him. She spoke, low, quiet. "And also with you."  
"It's 'And with your spirit,' now, apparently," Jim said. He swallowed, but the chalky taste remained. He got up from the bed and dug into his trousers for his phone while Elle watched, chewing her apple. He tapped it a couple of times, scowling, and pressed a single button as the phone began to ring silently in his hand.  
  
"What?"  
  
A pause, and an irritated sigh from the other end. "You could have fucking texted. The fuck have you been doing, flirting for four hours?”  
  
Jim decided to ignore this question. "I was occupied with several things more pleasant than catering to your concern. Have you anything to report, Captain?"  
  
He could hear Sebastian getting surly at his sharp tone. "No -- _sir_."  
  
He hung up abruptly and dropped the phone onto the small counter before he could get properly angry.  
  
Elle took another crunching bite of her apple, her eyes never leaving him. Her choice of nightdress might have distracted him (it was his shirt), especially combined with the moonlight hair that fell to her waist, except for the slate-grey eyes that were all business. This was one that required supervision. How long had she been awake, for her eyes to be so bright?  
  
"Considerate of him to check on you," she commented. Her voice was quiet and husky in the nighttime, he noted with some surprise, as though she had become part of it. She went on, “I'm so dangerous, clearly."  
  
He didn't respond to this, instead glancing pointedly at her apple. He lifted his chin in question.  
  
"Do you want one?" she said carelessly. "I was starving."  
  
"And no wonder. The look never quite leaves your eyes."  
  
"Probably never will. I’m always hungry. In every sense.”  
  
"I'm a bit more ambitious than all that."  
  
"Are you?" She laughed lightly. "Too ambitious. I don't want or need your flattery.”  
  
Jim cupped the back of her head with his hand and tasted her lips: apples, wine, sleep. Warm lips. Not gone from bed for very long, then. "Good. It wasn't flattery. That was your one and final warning."  
  
"Accepted, then, and disregarded," Elle breathed, dropping her apple to the floor. She caught up his hands and brought them to the shirt buttons, standing on her toes to hover over his lips. "Ask me why I'm not in bed."  
  
"When I'm done with you, you'll wonder why you ever left it in the first place."

  


Elle’s bed was small -- scarcely enough to hold the two of them in it. So here they were, lying face to face, nearly nose to nose, toeing the threshold between consciousness and sleep. He watched her fall deeper into her doze, the sheet clutched to her throat, where his hand rested, her golden hair spread out behind her like another goddamned painting. Vermeer, maybe. Dark, luxurious. A painting that made you squint to see within the shadows.  
  
It was a little odd, sleeping with a woman after so long. The shape, obviously, was different, but that was more than fine. The mechanics of sex were all the same, he thought, once you got past the details.  
  
The odd part was that Elizabeth's body, while lovely and lithe, was rather diminutive, and because Jim was no Amazon himself that might have been awkward, too, had it not been so strangely rewarding. Wrestling between the sheets was fun when you were the bigger player.  
  
He had always been the bigger player, intellectually, and by now he knew he always would be. That sort of competition, though stimulating, was dangerously flamboyant, and he rather disliked the end results, anyway. It was inefficient, even when you counted the full, delicious distraction of it. And in the end, what? Victory, yes, was sweet, but that high never lasted. Even Sherlock had failed him, and it was going to be a very long time before he met another who could come as close, and who would be willing to play the game, if he ever did find them.  
  
She was watching him think, he realized with a sudden punched feeling. Her eyes were open, her heartbeat regular under his hand, and she was silent, gazing as though she could see through him. It was unsettling, and for not even a moment a peremptory rage clawed up his throat. Nobody could see, nobody was allowed to, not even Sebastian -- but no. Her eyelids dropped again. She was very quiet, with a porcelain stillness. She was asleep. He considered her, heartbeat slowly easing, his rage already half-forgotten. She really was so like a doll. Long, pretty eyelashes on youthful cheeks, a rather small nose, faint eyebrows, a childish, pouting mouth. Woman? he thought, idly, Or little girl, only pretending?  
  
Elle sighed, a perfect, tiny breath from the long column of her unmarked throat. It had been tempting to explore the limits of his strength against hers -- to pin down her limbs, turn and shape her as he pleased, to leave colorful reminders of where he had tasted, what he had claimed.  
  
But he was patient, if he was patient with anything, with his theorems. He could nearly see how, though not where, she would fit in the larger equation. And it was early, yet. Plenty of time for experimentation. She was a sweet little thing, after all. And already, she was halfway to being his. She was a wary, self-preserving creature, but she would not be asleep if she didn’t, on some level, expect him to leave her alive. He could surely enjoy her a while before her purpose was complete.

  


Elle stirred and knew without opening her eyes that she was alone. He had to have been gone before the dawn was fully out. She sat up in the grey light, and as her legs sprawled out, she found the bed was cold. Moriarty seemed to have disappeared into the very air. Disoriented, she dug under her pillows for her phone and found instead a bit of paper. A note. She flipped it over. Or, wait, what was this? She blinked hard to clear her head.  
  
The paper was folded into some complex little origami shape, out of the pink pad of paper she kept on the bookshelf. She could see scrawled writing on the inside. She got up, frowning, examining it for a moment before deciding she wanted direct communication, before any more games. She did not acknowledge the first flutterings of panic in her chest.  
  
She found her phone on the counter and dialed the number that was still labelled, jokingly, "Richard Brook de la Savoy."  
  
It rang twice. "Finally awake?"  
  
She relaxed a little at the sound of his voice, satisfied that at least he hadn't hit and run. Sort of. She supposed she should still be concerned about literal possibilities of the “hit” part. But at least he’d answered the phone.  
  
"Good morning," she replied drowsily, peering into the sun pouring in from the kitchen, the only window in the flat. It wasn’t very high in the sky -- it was perhaps seven. Early riser, he must be. Or restless. What the hell time had he left? How the hell hadn’t she heard him? She must have been sleeping hard, not to notice the door.  
  
“I don't believe we discussed the plan?" She leaned against the counter, shivered at its cold contact with her bare back, and started to pick at the origami note’s many corners.  
  
"I _believe_ ," Jim said, only a hint mockingly, "That I am not yet your employer. Unless you count seduction as accepting the offer, in which case, you should probably let me know how you got your current position. Regardless, any plans therein will be mine, not yours.” It sounded like there was a laugh there, somewhere.  
  
"Funny," she said dryly, but she was too amped up to be insulted. She pushed off the counter and shrugged a dressing gown on. "Do _you_ have a plan, then?"  
  
"Oh, yes, doll. Just flutter on back to the Iceman, there’s a girl, and I expect I’ll hear from you soon. Daddy must be getting flustered about you."  
  
"Have you told me what to do about that, or did I miss that bit?"  
  
Jim was silent a moment. Then he said, with light gravity, “I think you know that solutions to problems come at a price. But don’t worry,” he added. “I can hardly expect you to consider me while you’re worrying about them. You’re safe enough for now.”  
  
Elle bit her lips and peered out her window carefully. No one outside, not a car on the street. Not yet.  
  
“You’re worrying,” Jim’s voice said lazily, after a moment of silence. “You needn’t, really. I hope you’re not going to make me _repeat_ myself.”  
  
“Needn’t worry? Have you forgotten why I’m holed up in an East End ballet studio?” Her voice came out sharpish, and he chuckled. She could imagine him sprawled back in a chair, smug and amused at her discomfort.  
  
“Gosh, let me see…” he said with exaggerated slowness. “I couldn’t _possibly_ have forgotten that you set up a hilariously mawkish fake suicide for yourself -- I’ll be in touch about copyrights, by the way -- in order for you to avoid your dubiously well-connected father, and more hilariously still, to evade _me_. I have also a perfect memory of my promise to provide you with a neat end to that sad little attempt. And I will… when conditions are met.”  
  
“You mean when you’re satisfied I won’t talk to anyone about you?” Elle laughed and leaned against the fridge, willing its inner cold into her flushed face. “God, if you knew.”  
  
“I will,” he assured her. “You’ll tell me your secrets. Or I’ll find out -- that’s all that’s important for you to know for now.” He took a breath that was almost a sigh, his voice growing suddenly distant, as though his brain had moved on to something -- someone -- else. “Questions?”  
  
She curled her fist into the lino. Oh, so now he was business-like, the bastard. “Yes, one -- is this phone safe?”  
  
There was definitely a smile in his voice now. “Darling. Do you really not feel safe with me?”  
  
“That’s not what I--”  
  
“I _know_ what you meant,” he said. “You’ll learn not to doubt me. Until then, _au revoir_ , doll. I’ll be in touch. Behave yourself.”  
  
“But--” she started.  
  
Nothing. He had hung up.  
  
Dejected more than she would admit to herself, she hit “end” on her phone and realized his note was crumpled beneath it in her hand. The origami had unraveled itself. She smoothed it out. It read:  
  
_Impress me. x_  
  
*~*~*  
Elle’s fingers tapped impatiently into her phone. The silly girl was ruminating, or else hiding from her. Wise, possibly, Vivienne knew all too well the limits of Elle’s annoyance. But she was not going to sit here all day in this stupid posh café.  
  
_Waiting for you x._ Delete the kiss. Add it again. Add another. Send.  
  
There, she thought. Vivienne would be along shortly. She knew her girl well. And if Mycroft was checking the phone he had given her, he wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Though she doubted he was, really. He was another one who spent more time ruminating than doing. Stuck in his head, playacting a game of chess which he never actually played.  
  
To tell the truth, while Mycroft Holmes was a great and a fascinating man, he was actually quite boring to work for. She had a feeling it hadn’t always been this way, but it was so now. Closeted, too, she suspected. Poor man. It was all probably about the brother. She wondered suddenly if this had anything to do with why her predecessor, Anthea, had left Mycroft’s employ. By all accounts she had been bright, capable. Elle knew that better than perhaps even Mycroft did.  
  
“Can I get you anything, miss?” a passing waiter inquired, leaning deferentially to the side to better hear her reply.  
  
“Yes. Two lattes, two glasses of water, please,” she said, without raising her voice past a murmur. She flashed a bright smile. She liked the ‘miss.’ “I’m expecting a friend. We won’t be needing breakfast, thank you.” As if she could afford it.  
  
He nodded and left her. Posh place, this. He wouldn’t blush at her smiles. She could try flirting, but her heart wasn’t in it. Pity, that. It usually lifted her mood.  
  
She checked her phone again. Nothing from Viv… or from anyone else. She sighed. Most people in her position in the government would be crowing about having made contact with an A-list criminal. The A-list criminal of the last ten years, she should say. One that was supposed to be dead. To have shot himself in the mouth. To have built such an empire that the world shook when it fell. The aftershocks were still making waves, no doubt, but that was for other offices to clean up.  
  
Well. She smiled as the coffee, beautiful dirty liquid in a pristine cup, was placed before her. She took a sip of water first, peeked out at the sunshine, the crowds. She knew better than most how the events atop Bart’s hospital had shaken the world underground. Her father had been among the fastest to snap up what he could out of Moriarty’s rubble, and solidified his kingdom from the pieces, made his name great.  
  
God, she thought, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the ice water in her throat. _Moriarty._ The open secret. The mad man. So close to myth it was impossible to tell what was truth and what was hearsay. It was a thankless task, to try to link the stories of Moriarty -- locked doors mysteriously opened, tense business transactions smoothed, illicit paths cleared, sudden death or heinous injury, impossible problems cleared away, and never so much as a glimpse of him -- to compare this figure of legend to the man she’d --  
  
Shit. She set down her cup on its pretty little saucer before her fingers could start shaking and spill coffee on the tablecloth. Get a grip, Elizabeth, she thought, swallowing hard. Political connections be damned, if he wanted her dead she’d be dead. But she wasn’t. So far, it seemed, he trusted her not to talk. Or, more likely, he was enjoying this little sick game while she pretended to consider his offer, call his bluff. Because indeed, she had no way of knowing if he was the real thing, after all. Who was there to prove it? She cleared her throat and picked up her cup again. It seemed heavier.  
  
Five weeks. Five long, long weeks, and she still had no idea how to accomplish the task he’d set for her. To free herself from Mycroft Holmes. It was a test, probably. Or, possibly, a choice. Her mouth twisted, her mouth bitter from coffee. An impossible choice. Service, always, but to whom? For how long?  
  
Just then, a body slid into the seat opposite her, and she pulled herself from her musing. Vivienne Randall curled her hands around her cup with an almost sheepish slowness, her eyes downcast. Shy, then. Not entirely sure she should be here, though really she had more right to be than Elle did. When she came in she’d put the table under Vivienne’s account, and a table had appeared nearly instantly. Funny what money could buy.  
  
Elle sat back. Let her relax. She deserved that, at least. The aftercare, the quiet of a dying relationship.  
  
_See,_ she wanted to say, _no threat here. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Wouldn’t do me much good, anyway._ But she didn’t. She waited until Vivienne’s fingers stopped drumming restlessly against the porcelain and actually lifted the cup to her lips.  
  
“Where’s Jillian today?” she asked gently. Like old friends. Familiar. Safe.  
  
“Celeste’s house,” Viv said, looking into her cup. “Her parents have just installed a tennis court. Jilly’s ecstatic to learn. She does look sweet in the outfit. I never learned to play, myself, of course.” Her eyes lifted at last. Brown, deep. Not brown or deep enough, but eerily familiar, Elle realized with a pang that hit harder than she expected it to. “Did you?”  
  
Elle gave a wry smile. Vivienne’s impoverished past in India was a sore point, especially contrasted to her own, and it was not one that she brought up often or voluntarily.  
  
“Ah,” Viv said instead. “I see.” There was the faintest accent becoming more noticeable by the word. A warning sign. Elle paid attention, remained still. “Of course. They taught you everything, in that posh school you went to, didn’t they? Tennis, German. Table manners. How to talk to people. Make them like you. How to toss them around.”  
  
Elle cleared her throat. True enough. “I hate tennis. Or anything to do with things flying at your face at high speeds.”  
  
Vivienne’s expression softened for a fraction of a moment, even twitched towards a smile, and it was like old times. But then something shifted, under her cheekbones. Dark, bitter. Slowly, she said, as though she could not believe it was true,  
  
“Jilly’s going away.”  
  
“What?” Elle leaned forward. “Where?”  
  
“School. New York.” Vivienne swallowed. Elle noticed for the first time the circles under her eyes. “That bitch mother of Celeste’s sending her away. And everything Celeste does, Jilly wants to do. And everything that set does, my husband does.”  
  
“Darling-”  
  
“It’s a cruel thing,” Vivienne went on, staring her down with a cool gaze Elle rarely saw. “To send a child away from her mother, to make her more spoiled than she already is. Jilly will be fine. I know that. She’ll put the -- the _racists_ in their places, and that’ll be that. But she’ll come back different. Haughtier. They teach you to do that, in that sort of place, don’t they, Elle? Do they teach them to become cold, manipulative bitches like you and your people?”  
  
Elle raised her eyebrows, put her cup down, and sat back, eyeing the woman across from her for a long few seconds, taking the silence to study her more closely. She was dressed neatly, dedicated to hiding her body, as usual, in a little white jacket and tailored trousers. A couple bits of gold peeked out from her ears, her throat. Long cinnamon hair curled delicately around her shoulders. You wouldn’t know she was thirty-eight. You wouldn’t know that this kind of wealth, though comfortable, was a stain in her marriage and in her life, because what she wanted she couldn’t touch at all.  
  
God, she wanted.  
  
Already, Vivienne’s eyes had widened, regretting her words, perhaps. Fearing the consequences. Poor Viv. She was beginning to blush, her fingers to curl around the coffee cup again. The effect was rather pretty.  
  
Elle hummed skeptically, her study over, and fished in her purse. Knife still hidden away, good. Phone, keys, wallet, good. “You can put that down. We’re going.”  
  
“G-going? But I just -- where?” The cup tinkled as it was set down.  
  
“Mine. Come on.”  
  
Vivienne really was so lovely and pliant. It was why she had lasted so long. She bounced up the moment Elle rose, anxious and fidgety in her kitten heels. “But… what for?”  
  
Elle gave her an unimpressed look and Vivienne’s blush deepened to her roots.  
  
“Sweetie,” Elle smiled, and took the woman’s hand in hers. But just a squeeze; no need to attract attention, they’d been over that before. “Don’t look so scared. Do I really look like the type to be upset over a little rudeness?”  
  
Vivienne cast nervous looks around the café as Elle marched them out, in case of eyes following. “You don’t look like it now. But you _are_.”  
  
“Good girl, you’ve learned something. Come along. I’m going to make you forget about it all for a while.”  
  
At these words, Vivienne looked positively hopeful.  
  
“But,” she protested feebly as they stepped out into a rare burst of London sunshine. “I thought you said we couldn’t do this anymore -- because of Jilly--” Elle slipped on her sunglasses and glanced around them automatically. No one yet. Still, best to take a cab. People were swarming the streets and it would take too long to go back by tube. They would have to be quick.  
  
Elle lifted her hand and a cab instantly curbed towards them. She ducked in, leaving Vivienne to follow. She cast a careful glance at the gum wrappers and dirty shopping receipts. Not one of Jim’s cabs then, good. They really ought not to be followed.  
  
Vivienne was flustering. Elle scoffed, told the driver the address, and sat back, peering into her phone. She had learned not to expect Jim’s calls. There had only been two so far, and during both, perhaps a dozen words. Not nearly enough time with his voice. Just a few names, and he had asked whether she knew them. She had, some from working with the lawyer, Briggs, or with Mycroft, but some were old familiars from long ago. She knew better than to lie. She wondered what he was doing, at this moment.  
  
“Elle-”  
  
Elle sighed patiently. “Jillian is going away, correct? The summer intensive class ends soon, and I will no longer be her instructor. I’m thinking of a career change, anyway,” she added absently.  
  
Vivienne blinked, half convinced. She whispered frantically,“But -- but, your--”  
  
“V,” Elle said clearly. Nothing drew attention like whispers. “Don’t stutter, you know how it irritates me.”  
  
“What about Richard Brook?” Vivienne snapped, something like the cool haughtiness from the café back in her eyes. “Shouldn’t he know you’ve been leaving bruises on me for the last year?”  
  
At that, the driver did glance back, and Elle rolled her eyes. She smirked and looked at Vivienne, who as usual gave the impression of wanting to swallow her tongue.  
  
She squeezed Vivienne’s knee through her trousers as the cab crawled to a halt, and promptly broke her own rule by whispering, “Sweetheart, _I’m_ not the married one here. Come on.” She squeezed a bit higher, paid the cabbie, and slid out of the seat.  
  
Just a couple of streets away, now. Elle walked briskly, and Viv, though taller, struggled to keep up in her kitten heels. When they got to her door Elle unlocked it hurriedly and ushered Viv in. She turned and cast a careful glance up and down the street. Nothing. Nobody.  
  
She cast her eyes up to the security camera on the street lamp across from her. Except that. But with any luck, she could go in early tomorrow as usual and delete it from Mycroft’s CCTV feed. He might be impossibly clever, but the poor man wasn’t nearly as stealthy as he liked to believe. His computer password was _Liz_WSSH81_ , for heaven’s sake. She slid inside and locked the door, then bolted it. Wouldn’t do to have the government know where she was, after all.  
  
When she turned around, Vivienne was watching her with a torn expression, her hand on the rail of the stairs. She could never resist this, the secrecy, the control. Elle understood that, the sweet freedom of having your choices taken away. Still, that eagerness was so touching. She grinned as she came down the steps. Compulsively she pulled out her phone again and checked it. Nothing.  
  
“Well, V?” she teased. “Doubting again? All the times we’ve made love and you’re still scared of being found out?”  
  
Vivienne’s lips thinned into a tight line. “You’re little better than a poncy whore, do you know that? I paid for this hovel with my husband’s money, and you seduced it from me.”  
  
Elle burst out laughing. “ _Did_ I? Are you sure that’s the only reason? Goodness, that’s twice you’ve cheeked me in one day.” She stepped forward and gripped the lapel of the little white jacket. She could hear Vivienne’s breath catch as she inhaled. Citrus, freshness, expensive scent.  
  
“I like you with a little bite,” Elle murmured into her ear. Vivienne’s breathing stuttered again. “But just in case you were trying to get in a little dig--” She shook her, gently. “I want you to know, I’m only allowing it because this is the last time. No, honestly, Viv. It is. So you’d better kiss me now, before I ask you to pay in advance.”  
  
Vivienne let out a tiny breath of despair, and did.

  


She went to work as usual for the next week, with the now-usual anxiety about being seen in her second, secret flat, or out of her official flat. She had few choices. Moriarty, understandably, could not trust her yet, and she likewise was not about to count his word as protection. The last thing she wanted was her father’s suspicion, but the second to last thing she wanted was Mycroft Holmes’. And Jim expected her, apparently, to extract herself from that problem -- in other words, her existing employment -- by herself.  
  
But Mycroft, at least, appeared to notice nothing. Not yet. That indicated very little when it came to him, but all she could do was act as normally as possible while she cast around, frantically rummaging her skull for a plan while he typed slowly, key by key with his index fingers, or made long, obsequitous phone calls.  
It came down to choices, really. Stay, get caught by ally or enemy eventually, and leave? Or leave now, avoid some of the fuss? She looked at Mycroft, dry and exacting and dull, and she couldn’t tell. It seemed safe here, but who was she to know? Would she rather die of boredom?  
  
On top of that, Holmes had no reason to offer her any sort of protection, even if she asked. No leverage. Unless, of course, she confessed. The gangs, the laundering, the pharmaceuticals, the money, her father, her family. But she wouldn’t tell. Not him. Not anyone.  
  
The temp, Regina (who had been a “temp,” with Holmes, as far as Elle could tell, for several years, because she could evidently keep her mouth shut) said he had once been different, before. The hospital. The brother. The elder Holmes had been involved in things, people. He had had plans, focus. Now, devoid of any real equal, he just went through the motions, the same as before, but with even less feeling. And since this was government, motions meant paper, and there was plenty of that. He never pounded pavement anymore.  
  
Elle did like him, really, admired him even, but part of her recoiled. It was all rather sad, she supposed, but to hell with it, the past was done. You gave the lip and soldiered on, didn’t you? It frightened her to think she could become like him, a shell, hiding away from her past so as not to be noticed and hurt.  
  
So she soldiered on. She filed papers, she gave snark, she listened carefully to everything he said. Mycroft, it seemed, was too immersed in his desk work (or whatever he thought of all day) to focus on dubious activity right under his nose, but then again, once every so often he liked to ask her disarming questions.  
  
“Are you quite well, Miss Daniels? You look rather worn.”  
  
“Quite well, thank you sir.”  
  
“I notice you’ve chosen a different route home each evening. Is it a new beau?”  
  
She set his laptop down in front of him and eyed him mildly. “Perhaps. But that couldn’t possibly be your business to ask, sir, could it?”  
  
Pleased at being rebuffed, he hurrumphed, squinted down at the screen, and said no more.  
  
The nervous wreck she was tempted to become after conversations like these was thwarted somewhat by planning for her uncertain future. It was a bit like when she’d left home, after all, except she had to do things with even more secrecy.  
  
Clothes, a knife, a phone, some cash. Money was hardest, as she began to pawn the jewelry she didn’t care for, always in new places, always attracting stares. After some thought, she kept the teardrop ruby from Jim. She wouldn’t be able to wear it, but it was too lovely to give away, and too conspicuous besides. She kept a store of these certain emergency items in her bag. Her other things were kept ready at home, just in case. With every step, she asked herself, Am I really doing this? Am I going back?  
  
Back. That was the word at the end of every cigarette that she smoked after work, one an evening, outside the studio before going in to change after ballet class. It tasted bitter, made her want to spit it out, but it had already burned the air and seeped into her lungs. She stuffed the carton of cigarettes into her purse and glared at the pavement.  
  
Back to London’s real underground, because she was her father’s child. Back, because she was part of that world, and with a family like hers there was no getting out of it -- not alive, anyway. Great, useless inheritance.  
  
It seemed she’d already decided, she realized. Fine. She would leave civilian society. It had been a pipe dream to think she could be a normal little person with a job, anyway, free from family legacy. And look where she’d ended up -- not even proper society. Government, law. Still an outsider, looking in. Spectacular job, Elizabeth, she thought to herself, looking up at the dark, blurry sky. She stubbed out the cigarette, feeling all the better for having plans settled.  
  
Let the underside of London wonder where she’d got to. Let them think she was dead, because she might as well be, shouldn’t she? Jim Moriarty, or whoever he was, would be her first step, to test the waters for sharks. She might be safe, if he could deliver on his promises of safety, anonymity. She might actually be able to carve a line of her own.  
  
After that, she didn’t know. If he really was who he said -- and more and more, she feared, she doubted -- he might not let her see past his front door. But she knew where her focus ought to be, at least, and the first step to that was getting the hell away from Mycroft Holmes, and on the road to being forgotten about. Should be easy, really, with the poor man’s mental state as it was.  
  
She made sure all the doors outside and into the flat were locked, shut off the lights, and lay down in her bed, listening to London’s breathing. She was a bit calmer now, with the lights off and her decision made. Cars, traffic. Siren, off a bit, maybe a street or two away. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, steady, soothing.  
  
She hated this sea of waiting, the angst of either hearing from Moriarty or not hearing from him. And whenever he did, disappointment, longing. A few short words, and then silence again.  
  
Strangely, more small changes had appeared in the flat when she was away from home: the shower faucet that had only sprayed hot or icy water was now available in every degree in between; the studio floor was cleaned and waxed, and the mirrors gleamed more brightly than they ever had before. Eerily, things that she had left at her old place that she’d been desperately missing, but felt she couldn’t take for fear of discovery, were returned to her with a random but chilling accuracy that made her shiver to think of him going through her private possessions.  
  
Phone charger and laptop. Makeup case. Her favorite LB heels. The book of poetry she’d been reading. Her mother’s diamond earrings, which, she’d remembered with a dull shock, had been kept in a lockbox downstairs in the lobby.  
  
_But I have the key for that_ , she’d thought numbly, staring down with trembling fingers at the old velvet box, set carefully on her table, _I have it in my purse, the key is still there, I saw it this morning. How did he get the front desk to open it for him?_  
  
She thought perhaps he called her when he was bored, or when he accidentally remembered her again. Elle thought pretty well of herself, certainly. But what was she, after all, to someone with a mind, with an enterprise like his? She couldn’t be sure it extended farther than her father’s, yet surely it did. He surely had people working for him all over the globe, who had known he was alive and who had been hushed up about it for those two years since the hospital. What kind of respect, or fear -- both, probably -- could this man inspire, to keep dozens of people quiet for so long? It all seemed impossible.  
  
She turned over in bed. Something must happen. He would not be seen to trust her, so she must be seen to trust him. Make the first move. She could deny it all she wanted, change her name, fake her suicide, but she was a Spencer. Almost royalty, you could say. Other people might be able to slip in and out of the criminal world unnoticed, but she was too well known for that. Even with Moriarty’s illusions, with Mycroft’s protection, she would inevitably be found out, hunted down. She would get one choice. In, or out. For, or against. Choices. Sides. The endless war. The game that never ended.

  


The next night, she went out to another hotel bar, not the Savoy. Backless dress, her hair down for once, a moment of desperate inspiration. It was a stupid idea, really, but she had no clue how to extract herself from the British government without being watched for days or weeks afterward. Holmes didn’t ask her many personal questions, but they knew each other well enough to know that “looking for a career change” was not a suitable explanation for exiting his office. Not with what she knew.  
  
It actually wasn’t a lot, to be fair. Jim had been scarily accurate when he had tried to guess what she really did. It was true that she was part liason for Holmes, acting as substitute when actual personal interaction was involved. Officially, she represented the office. It just so happened that the “office” wanted nothing to do with people and spent most of his time making sure this preference was undisturbed.  
  
Within half an hour of her entrance to the bar, she found a perfect subject. Tall, tragically handsome in his way, she supposed. She eyed him until he came over to talk to her. Light humor, she found, funny, and, she discovered to her pleasure, for variety’s sake, Portuguese.  
  
She relaxed. This, at least, was something productive. Something that she could do to prove that she was not a helpless doll to be taken care of.  
  
Filipe had warm, friendly hands. His witty banter switched easily to touching, if humorous, love tokens such as “Your eyes shine like an English rain I would wish to drown in,” and “You will not forget me after tonight, amor?” Instead of rolling her eyes, she made herself laugh, bite her lips, smile.  
  
He was a good kisser, she thought in the cab, and could be led into pleasing her easily enough. An added bonus to her work night. They took a hotel room not far away, plenty expensive enough. Not that she cared, usually, but it was nice to be surrounded by luxury again. His warm hands grew even warmer, but she really hadn’t been in the mood, exactly, and outside of her usual style she brushed away his wandering hands and pushed him hard, sending him flying back to sit on the bed. For a moment he stared, strong features slack. Then he grinned.  
  
With surprise she found him quite pliant, quite willing to do anything it took to please her. He lay prostrate on the bed and let her do as she pleased, only moaning incoherent phrases every once in a while. His passionate noise grew comforting after that. To be honest, though she hadn’t been in it for the sex, she would have really preferred a woman for tonight. But hell, she could happily make do with this.  
  
In the morning she left him, and solidified her plans on the way to work, eyeing her mother’s diamonds skeptically. Ought to work. Diamonds were a sentimental thing, weren’t they?  
  
Making certain that the door to Mycroft’s office was open, she indulged in her work-acquaintance-come-friendship with Regina by showing off photos of herself with her brand-new -- ahem, “fiancé.”  
  
“Oh, how sweet! Congratulations!” Regina quite gushed over the photo, the one she had taken of Filipe kissing her cheek, both of them polished, laughing, at the bar last night. “When’s the wedding, do you know?”  
  
“Quite soon, I think, actually,” Elle beamed, best of spirits, happy bride-to-be. She wondered if her cheeks ought to be glowing, if she could pull that off. “His father’s in the Portuguese government and the entire family expects to be relocated nearly permanently somewhere. Better to be married, we thought.”  
  
And then, for good measure, “You know, I don’t think I could have accepted him if he weren’t leaving, and I wouldn’t go with him if he hadn’t proposed. It’s so sudden. I don’t know how I’m to tell Mr. Holmes.”  
  
Of course, as planned, a quiet drawl when she entered the office later that day inquired,  
  
“So. Am I to offer condolences or congratulations to you, Miss Daniels?”  
  
She paused in dividing his papers. “...Sir?”  
  
Mycroft squinted at her smugly. “You made sure to have me overhear your conversation with Mrs. Poole. You are to be married, and soon?”  
  
Elle made sure to pause for the proper length of embarrassed surprise, not quite inclining her head but avoiding Holmes’ gaze. “...Erm, yes, sir. It was an -- unexpected thing.”  
  
“But not unwelcome?” He sat back in his chair, folding his hands. His eyes fell on her, she could feel them, and she looked up and met them. This was the pivotal moment, she knew. Her story must hold up under observation. Would he check social media? Finances? Would he actually check with the Portuguese government? She must give him a common surname, just in case. On her lunch break she’d hacked into most of Filipe’s social accounts, made believable copies of his other records, hidden the real ones, just in case. Her heart thumped rather hard against her rib.  
  
“No, sir, not unwelcome,” she said. “Just not planned for.”  
  
His gaze fell to her the diamond on her hand; old, unpolished, unfit, though her mother’s size had been only a size up from her own. “That I can see. You’ve not been together long, I perceive, and I see this at last is the reason for your lack of color lately. So why, may I ask, will you marry him? One last rebellious burst of youth?”  
  
Whey-faced, she repeated the lie about the father’s work in the government and his relocation.  
  
Mycroft tipped his head back and smirked dryly. “And you see a future there, wherever he may lead you?”  
  
Somehow, another lie slipped into her head like she was reading from a script. “He’s a reasonably smart man, sir. If he’s not assigned to Lisbon like he wants, they’re likely to end up in New York, or Montréal. There will be plenty of opportunity for me there. My French is more than acceptable.”  
  
“Ah.” His smile grew. “So it isn’t a match for love. The apple fascinates, but I think it is the snake you want, after all.”  
  
Elle actually started. She’d never thought such a pair of sentences would ever pass the lips of the dry papery soul that was Mycroft Holmes. Her reaction prompted pleasure. Mycroft went on, amused,  
  
“You needn’t worry. I am the last person to judge you. In fact, I think you rather prudent… You’re following a time-honored tradition, you know.” He sighed and returned his gaze to her face, eyeing her with a satisfied sort of scrutiny. “You’ll need to tell me the rest, Miss Daniels. I know you’re keeping something back. You’ve not given me your well-mannered cheek in over five minutes.”  
  
She gripped the papers she was holding rather hard. She wasn’t blushing. She was too old, too well-trained to do something so idiotic.  
  
“Well, sir,” she said quietly. “It’s also that I’m … I’m, erm… well, you know.” She let the silence, the files carefully arranged against her, say the rest.  
  
Mycroft Holmes sat back in his chair again, flummoxed. As though it were the most out-of-place thing in the world for to suggest such a thing as she’d just done. As though he had thought her beyond it. After he collected himself, he nodded briskly, and quite firmly said,  
  
“You may leave when you wish. It will take some time to find a suitable replacement, and in fact it might be wise for me to see what you have been doing in my files. Inform me a day or two in advance, if you’d be so kind, and we’ll say no more on the subject, Miss Daniels.”  
  
It was a very close thing not to burst out laughing. The cleverest man in London, outdone by a stubborn blind spot for the fertile female body.  
  
*~*~*~*  
Her cab, the scrupulously clean one that she now understood was employed solely to transport her, arrived for her after work that day as usual. The driver made no comment, also as usual, despite her neglect to notify anyone of her absence from her flat the night before. She had gone straight to the restaurant where she’d met Filipe after work yesterday, used a different cab on purpose. She knew he’d been watching her, had to be, it was the safe thing to do. It was still a tiny bit impressive, though.  
  
So she was only a little nervous to note that the direction in which they were heading was not that of her studio, but the opposite direction. After about twenty minutes they turned into a row of fine looking buildings with the occasional doorman out front and designer shops on either side. The whole street reminded her of Paris, actually. She looked out at the shops with nostalgic interest. Was she being summoned for a scolding? Or something worse?  
  
Elle got out when the car stopped and was allowed into the lobby and into the lift of one of the buildings without much notice. She waited until all the other people had disappeared onto their respective floors before inspecting the column of neat names next to a dozen silver buttons. Every person who lived here, it seemed, had their own private floor. You would think the place would have better security.  
  
There was of course no Jim or James Moriarty, but neither was there Richard Brook, or even Sebastian Moran. What was Sebastian Moran to him, anyway? She had heard many things, but having met him just the once, she could only assume the most boring were true. Driver, body guard, decorated army veteran, highly trained sniper and personal assassin. Disappointing, really.  
  
The labels made a list of unassuming and uninspiring names, she decided, and there was only one white entry, apparently an empty flat, in the second to top slot. She pressed the button.  
  
When the doors opened she had to go into a little passage and buzz the intercom next to a dark, polished door. Looking around, she found a staircase leading down, which was comforting, if she could manage to get out here again for a quick exit. After a long few seconds, there was a strange crackle from the intercom, but no voice greeted her. A metal clang sounded from behind the door, and when she tried the handle it turned easily, although the door itself was bloody heavy.  
  
He was there, a dark shape waiting for her at the dark end of the corridor, leaning on the wall, with alert eyes and a completely untraceable expression. Dressed immaculately, as usual, in a blue suit today.  
  
Suddenly, to her mingled horror, she felt rather awkward. They had slept together, yes, _God_ yes, but how much did that signify, if at all? He had been very brief with her the past few weeks. He might indeed not want to cross that line again. With a sick feeling, she settled the matter quickly and forcefully in her head. Very well. Business only. Let nothing else show. Relax, she told herself, feeling herself sink into a logical sort of panic, like tunnel vision but clearer. Fucking relax.  
  
He didn’t move as she approached, but accepted her low, “Mr. Moriarty,” and subsequent polite peck to the cheek with a loud, delighted chuckle. She stared at him.  
  
“That certainly won’t do,” he murmured. He bent and kissed her lips lightly, his own plush and sweet, just as she remembered. Oh, he smelled good. Clean, expensive tobacco, aftershave, ink. Her fingers gripped her purse tightly and she kept her eyes shut as they parted.  
  
“Now, say hello again. I’d say we’re past formalities, aren’t we, Elizabeth, to use your words?”  
  
“Hello, Jim,” she murmured obediently. She opened her eyes. What was this shit? Business? Just flirting? Something else? She was too fucking nervous to play this game, and he knew it. He dragged a thumb over his bottom lip thoughtfully and shook his head, slow. His eyes were way too close, much too alive. Nobody’s eyes should hold that much weight. They were only brown eyes, but so much more because they saw through her and could feel it happening.  
  
He reached for her with both hands and tilted her face up, kissed her deeper, more seriously. As soon as she felt his nails on her scalp she moaned very softly and kissed back. Her purse dropped to the floor. This definitely was not a business kiss, but it had been so long, five weeks, and she had almost but never really forgotten the cold focus which bonded them together like fused atoms, humming with suppressed energy. Even the touch of his hands on her was electric, making her skin burn hot.  
  
“Hello, Jim,” she sighed when their mouths parted. His eyes plundered hers again, deep darkness and untraceable thoughts, and suddenly he shoved her backward, hard, her back knocked flat against the opposite wall, her hands still open where they had been resting passively against his chest, hesitating, aching to really touch him, to dig into his clothes and his skin with her fingers, her nails. He came to her slowly, every step dreadfully calm while her pulse thudded in her head. She thought about fainting, which was the only time she had heard her own heartbeat this loud.  
  
His eyes were filled with real fire, now, and as cold as it looked, it burned her from the inside, pinned her breath against her lungs. When he kissed her again it was demanding, hard and gasping, fingers grasping her thin jacket, his body pressed against hers, close as vertical bodies could be until his hand moved to her thigh, pressing her closer still, and to her dazed shock his mouth shifted, tongue and teeth, to her jaw, her neck, so that instead of repeating her insipid greeting she could breathe only,  
  
“Jim,” she closed her eyes and gasped it, “ _Jim._ ”  
  
With a final little bite to her jugular, he looked up, satisfied. “There you are,” he said, and let her go. “No need to be so closed off with me, darling. Now. Are you ready to talk?”  
  
She took in a long breath, struggling to compose herself in the sudden cold of his leaving. She wasn’t ready. Fuck. Oh God, self control. He had it. At the precise moment, she didn’t. Now that was something impressive.  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment, and she knew before she left this flat she was going to fuck him again.  
  
Elle stood straight again, left her purse on the floor. She had gotten her breath back, but she wasn’t about to give up. “Couldn’t we talk later?”  
  
Jim flashed a strange, lazy sort of grin and turned, leading her into a sparsely furnished living room, rich in taste though muted in color. This isn’t his flat, she thought with some surprise. Nothing personal was here, and as neat as he kept himself, even the criminally tidy kept iPhone chargers hanging about.  
  
The shops below weren’t visible from this height, and slanted sunlight fell through the windows as though they floated alone among the rooftops. “We could. But I want you honest with me, first, before we forget business. Work before play, and all that. You are a bit distracting, you know. Bit mysterious, when the light hits you just so.”  
  
She smiled suddenly. She was distracting and mysterious? “You’re trying to flatter me.”  
  
“Yes. But to the point.” He beckoned to her, and she followed him to the window. He reached out and stroked his thumb over her throat. Couldn’t seem to resist touching her. She almost wished he wouldn’t, if this really was business. “I’ve considered your case,” he said slowly, almost suspiciously. “And there’s something I want to know before we go on.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
His eyes were light, now, as light as she had ever seen them. As though kissing her a few moments ago had sapped them of most of the dark furor. She wondered what her eyes looked like. “Why not take your father’s business for yourself? If it’s help you want, I’m sure something could be ...arranged.”  
  
She stepped away slightly and cleared her throat, warm from where his hands had been. She was thankful -- again -- that she wasn’t prone to untimely blushing. Ought to have seen this one coming. It was a logical move, after all. But it was still a punch to the gut. “I don’t want it,” she said, with not a little disgust. “Not now, not ever.”  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“To get away from it. That’s all.”  
  
“No,” Jim said, quite certainly. He was eyeing her with a kind of scrutiny he hadn’t before, and she looked away before she could fall into it and forget herself “Nobody ever only wants to get out. They want to get away from a bad place, fine. But what then? Usually that’s followed with ‘build a new life,’ or some rubbish of that sort. Is that really what you want?”  
  
Elle stared stoically out of the window, across the scattered tops of London. “If you like.”  
  
Jim tutted and slid his hands into his pockets. She could actually feel the moment his gaze left her. He stared out the windows, too. “Don’t lie to me, it’s irritating. Tell me the real reason why you want Daddy to think you’ve offed it.”  
  
She swallowed as inconspicuously as possible. She knew the cues that would mark her as nervous, but he did too, obviously, so she remained as still, as calm as possible. “I felt the matter of my safety was at risk. He ...wanted to meet you,” she said simply.  
  
Jim’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes. You’re the one who tried arranging that little meeting, as I remember. I was considering it, at the time. Not that I would have done, you understand.”  
  
“It was when he was so…” she paused, uncomfortable with sharing this particular information. It was private, but if she didn’t explain herself he would have the perfect grounds to shoot her dead. “So enthused. Then I knew I’d botched something. He’s never -- not recently, anyway -- he’s never been proud of anything I’ve ever done. But he seemed proud to think I’d met you.”  
  
“Hope you weren’t name-dropping,” he said lazily, although his eyes were sharp. “Be a bit cheap of you, doll.”  
  
Elle looked at him this time, annoyed. “Believe it or not, I _am_ actually trying not to give you reasons to kill me. Of course I didn’t tell him your name. Just that you were important.”  
  
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”  
  
She stared back. “What’s in a name? Nothing. He would have dropped it as a mistake. A trick. He thinks you’re dead.”  
  
“I thought you said before that he thought I wasn’t? Were you lying to me to cover your pretty little arse?”  
  
She shrugged, and he laughed outright, the dark expression cleared slightly. The eyes though. She couldn’t look away; so much for that. They were just -- he looked mad, a moment away from screaming or laughing or crying. She felt a stab of fear. If he wasn’t the real thing, he could be just as dangerous.  
  
“You’re playing with fire there, love,” he said gently. “But I see the rest. Tell me if I get any of it wrong...” He stepped forward and she froze, her heartbeat stuttering. All he did was close his fingers around her wrist, gentle. She could break it and run, if she wanted to, which meant, really, that she couldn’t move at all. Mind games, she thought, dazed. God, she was done for.  
  
“You wanted Daddy’s approval,” Jim began, “Until you realized that you could only buy it with somebody else’s cash. Proud little vixen, you -- you found yourself caught in a political game of catch-22. Ought to have learned a few more lessons from Daddy Holmes, hm?”  
  
Elle’s arm jerked angrily, but he held tight to her wrist and went on calmly.  
  
“Because you knew we wouldn’t get along, your father and me, didn’t you, clever girl? We probably wouldn’t. I don’t mix well, usually.” He grinned.  
  
“But parental bonds are so touching, aren’t they? Your father would have kept close, had I decided to use you, to try to keep you safe from bad old me. Poor pet. And if Daddy hadn’t approved, which is much more likely, I might add -- I would have had to kill you all anyway. Nobody knows I’m alive, after all, and for now I prefer it that way. But maybe I would have kept you,” he added, his voice a smooth, hypnotizing drawl, “Kept you locked up somewhere, spoils of war and all that. Little princess, locked up in the dead man’s tower.”  
  
Elle took a step backwards, and he followed her step, his grip tightening. For a tense moment, his hand was an iron cuff around her wrist while her pulse staggered, blood pounding in her head, her breath tight. But she wasn’t afraid anymore. God, no.  
  
Jim started to laugh. “I knew you’d like that. You make flirting with death a bit of a hobby, don’t you?”  
  
She smiled coyly, her heartbeat slowing to normal, almost. “No. Born into it. Usually it scares people, being flirted with. Most people,” she amended. “Which you are vehemently not.”  
  
“Neither are you.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Not a compliment.”  
  
“Yes it was, I initiated it.”  
  
“Fine.” He stroked his thumb absently over the inside of her wrist, though she wondered if anything he did was absent. He was careful. Calculating.  
  
“So you’re not frightened of me? Look at you. Most people have at least checked their guns by now." He gave her a quick once over. “Although if you’ve managed to hide one under that dress I’ll be very impressed.”  
  
“You’ve not given me much reason to be frightened.” A half-truth, but it would do.  
  
“True enough. But I expect that will change, once I start giving you orders. Oh, I know you’re good--” he said, as she raised an eyebrow, “I know the Iceman wouldn’t keep you if you weren’t. But you’re mouthy. That won’t do.”  
  
“So?” she shot back, and then added on instinct, “You like it.”  
  
Jim tutted, almost another laugh. But his eyes were serious. “We’re not conducting actual business now. So I’ll warn you once. During business, mind your tongue,” he said firmly. “Or I’ll replace it with one of your fingers.”  
  
Her stomach clenched. Jim watched her expression carefully, ran his tongue over his lips, and lifted up her hand.  
  
“This one, perhaps.” He squinted skeptically at the ring still dangling from her left hand. Then he glanced at her face mildly. “So, tell me. Expecting something? It had better be mine, is all I’ll say.”  
  
Elle paled. She felt her fingers and toes grow cold. How could he guess? He couldn’t. He knew. But he couldn’t know. Unless -- “I -- you were --”  
  
He blinked placidly. “I told you not to doubt me. Of course I listened in. Did you think I wouldn’t?” He dropped her hand suddenly and strode away to a small bar cart, huddled by the wall next to the tall windows that looked out over the city. Clinking bottles. “Tell me how I did it. Quickly, now, you get one guess.”  
  
“Mobile phone,” she said weakly, after a moment.  
  
“Very good, doll, yes. Easy peasy. Did it while you were asleep, after you came back to bed that night. Mycroft’s minions did give me pause for about ten minutes, I’ll give them that. I’d expect more from him, after a mobile phone almost cost him the treasury, but there you are. History repeats itself and always will.”  
  
Jim turned back, glasses in hand, liquid amber swirling at the bottom. He put one into her hand and she sipped the whiskey, stupidly. Should have waited for him to drink first, or just pretended, she wasn’t an idiot, but oh well. She’d just had a shock. And it was good.  
  
“How… long were you listening for?” she asked.  
  
Jim smirked over his glass. “Oh, I don’t cut corners, Elizabeth. Neither should you.” He leaned in close, his breath warm on her lips. “Think of all the places you take your phone. I was there. If not in the moment, then quite soon after. I heard you lead the Ice Man in a circle by his manners. Not a completely blundering way to secede your post, and quite funny.” Then his smirk cooled.  
  
“I heard you seduce that idiot last night.” His lips quirked. Disgust? “He’ll be back in Porto by now, wondering why his social media accounts are locked and why he can’t get back to England. Although you did the hacking, part, thank you very much.”  
  
“Did you -- have him arrested?”  
  
“Nah. Attracts attention. Just deported him for old criminal charges from Portugal. Even a journalist can’t argue with that.”  
  
She swallowed, thinking frantically. He could just be saying that, but why would he? “Jealous rather quickly, aren’t you?”  
  
For the first time, he scowled at her, and she felt her pulse throb. “I don’t leave loose ends. You’ve proven you can work with scant means, I suppose, but you’re sloppy. Holmes would have suspected something fishy if he’d been able to track down your --” his lips quirked up again -- “Er, fiancé. Or would you prefer baby daddy? But no -- we’ve already established you’re carrying my progeny.”  
  
“Not all of us have the money or connections to randomly deport people,” she said with some heat, “I had to think of something that would-”  
  
“If you’re going to work for me, Elizabeth,” he said flatly, “You’re going to use whatever resources you’re given. If you use someone, dispense with him afterwards. Don’t be stupid, and don’t be so sentimental again. You know the game.”  
  
Elle felt her fingers tighten around her tumbler as she set it down. Oh, she hated being chastised. Though thank God, it had been a while. Mycroft tended to show displeasure passively. But her father, oh, she’d gotten plenty of scolding from him.  
  
Fingers under her chin, directing her gaze. Another shock, warm this time, from his eyes, as light as the whiskey, almost. He tilted his head to the side, speculative, calm.  
  
“One more thing.”  
  
“What is it?” It came out a bit more resentful than intended.  
  
His grip tightened, thumb against her throat so that suddenly she was at risk of losing air.  
  
“I understand the journalist. And I’ll even accept that the arrangement you had with the banker’s wife was practical, to a point. It was quite funny, listening to you torture the poor woman. Wasn’t sure for a little while whether you were fucking or killing her. Oh yes, Elizabeth, I heard that, too, stop your squirming, I am _speaking_. Know this. I don’t plan on sharing you. Not with her, not with Holmes, and not with anyone else. You’d be best off to cut that charade from your repertoire. Is that clear?”  
  
Elle ran her tongue over her lips and smiled. “I see. Even you, hm?”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“I would have thought you were beyond such a plastic structure as heterosexual monogamy.”  
  
Jim barked a laugh. “I assure you, I am. But I, and now you, live in extenuating circumstances. Holmes was careless to let you loose without a close eye on your back. I, however, am not going to make the same mistake.”  
  
She frowned. “But why? I don’t care if you know who I’ve been-”  
  
“Because you’re going to be _seen_ ,” he snapped. “Do you want your brains spread on the pavement like so much _foie gras_ because you were focused on chasing after an STD?”  
  
Elle stared at him, absolutely entranced. Unbelievably, she heard herself giggle, then laugh. “The point of me is to be seen, Mr. Moriarty, as far as I understand. Am I wrong?”  
  
His hand fell to her waist and swept her a step closer, their breaths mingling. He’d been teasing her slowly all this time, with a gradual increase of contact, almost as if he was as drawn to her as she was to him. Was he? Experimentally, she reached for the button of his jacket, which fell apart easily enough. She ran her hand up and rested her fingers around his tie, watching his pupils dilate. His next breath might have been a sigh of impatience, or something else. A hot curl of wanting in her belly lifted its resting head.  
  
“Am I going to have to remind you of your place already, doll?”  
  
“Technically, dear, we were only just lining my place out, and after all, I haven’t accepted the position yet. If you’re going to complain about my place, why don’t you be a bit more explicit?” She tugged idly at the tie and smiled. “Then I’ll know exactly where to misbehave.”  
  
“I knew that mouth would be trouble. But we’ll leave it at this: you’ll learn to like monogamy, or you’ll learn to like celibacy.”  
  
“Cocky bastard, aren’t you?” she whispered. “What about the rest? I assume you have other rules you want me to follow?”  
  
“But that would be telling.” He grinned, impossibly mad. “Like I said, little girl. You know the game.”  
  
“But I don’t,” she whispered. “I really don’t. It’s been so long.”  
  
“You do. Even if you don’t know it yet. Holmes was just practice, you know. I’ll teach you how to play.”  
  
“I haven’t accepted yet, you know.”  
  
“No, not quite,” he breathed. “You do like to tease.”  
  
“I’m not-”  
  
He shushed her. “Our appointment is over and I’m on a schedule.” He leaned close, bit one of her breathless lips between his teeth. “Kid gloves off now, pet. We’ll have to be quick. I do hope you’re ready.”  
  
God, oh god. She wasn’t.  
  
But then he sank down onto one of the chic couches, his eyes alight with absolutely relaxed certainty, and then she was.  
  
She toed off her heels and climbed on his warm lap. Within seconds, his fingers were under her dress, and hers were plucking the condom from inside his jacket pocket.

  


He hadn’t been exaggerating. Within half an hour, she was back in her cab, trundling home. But then, she considered, still a bit blissful and quite a bit more sore than she had been the first time, she’d wanted him within the first five minutes, and nearly every minute after that had been a slow build up of intellectual and verbal foreplay.  
  
And he was good. She had to admit it, though sexual pleasure from men had been, in her experience, fun at best and practical beyond anything else. Jim Moriarty was like no other man or woman she’d ever had. He could read her -- she who usually did the reading. He seemed to know, without being told, what would make her moan, how long to linger there, when to move on to something else just when she wanted more. He wasn’t perfect at it yet, but she could easily see how little time it would take to get there.  
  
The cab stopped. She thanked the driver and got out. So yes, apparently sex was a pre-existing condition of employment with Moriarty. She wondered how that would affect day to day activities. Could she really be expected to be told what to do all the time, in and out of the bedroom? He was bossy, clearly, and even though she’d technically been top this time, he had been just as active at controlling things as she was.  
  
She climbed the steps to her flat, musing. It wasn’t as though she completely minded sacrificing an open playing field; she’d had her dry spells before, and Jim’s conditions were certainly much better than that. She wasn’t exactly against being the submissive partner, either, as long as she generally got her way… but this was different. He would be her employer in exchange for a presumably long term service. Would there be a length of contract? No -- she would be perhaps permanently indebted to him in order to stay in hiding. Memories were kept locked up tight in their part of the world. So, service and sex in exchange for protection. That was rather more power than simply being able to shove your partner against a wall.  
  
She sighed and shoved open the sticky door to her flat. This was a problem best accompanied by a glass of something. Not whiskey.  
  
She took one step inside and suddenly every thought of drink and of Jim flew completely from her mind. Her heart rocketed into her mouth, and she froze, looking around wildly.  
  
The flat was trashed. Her bed had been flipped over, the mattress and all the pillows cut open. Her books had been swept onto the floor, some of them with the pages half ripped out. Cupboards and cabinet doors were open, and the stacks of crates had obviously been rummaged through, some of them cast around on the floor.  
  
She plunged her hand inside her bag for her knife, and holding her breath, she stepped through the flat, punched open the bathroom door. No one. She was alone, or it would appear so. She knew better.  
  
Still gripping the knife, Elle dug out her phone for the first time in hours, and saw that it had been bombarded by phone calls and texts. Half numb with panic, she opened the texts and had a moment of sick recognition at the sender. He’d tried to warn her.  
  
_‘Where are you?’  
‘WHERE ARE YOU. YOUR DAD FOUND YOUR FLAT. THEY ARE COMING.’  
‘Ella tell me I won’t say anything I swear’  
‘Elle please answer the goddamned phone’  
‘That poem is the sickest thing you’ve ever done’  
‘If we find you alive I’ll fucking murder you myself, I KNOW you’re not dead’  
‘You’re too stubborn to be dead, I know you’re there, fucking answer me’  
‘Please, please don’t be dead. If you’re reading this, you don’t have to tell me what you’re doing, just tell me you’re not dead.’_  
  
She dropped the phone and dug into her bag again, scrambling for the burner. With cold fingers she dialed the number and waited, half forgetting how to breathe.  
  
“Well, Elizabeth?” Jim’s voice drawled, but he almost sounded annoyed. “What is it?”  
  
“I accept the position, I’ll do it, I’m yours,” she blurted, barely daring to hiss into the phone. “Come and get me, _please_.”  
  
There was the briefest pause, and then, “What happened?”  
  
“They’ve been here, to the studio. They’re looking for me. I don’t know where they went to--”  
  
“Did you check the flat? You’re alone?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , I checked it, I’m not a fucking imbecile!”  
  
“Yes you are, you’re shouting,” said Jim, coldly. She hadn’t even realized she’d shouted. She swallowed and went back to hardly breathing at all.  
After a moment, Jim said, “Don’t touch anything. I’ll have someone come and get you.”  
  
“How long?”  
  
“Five minutes. Go downstairs. Don’t bring anything you don’t already have in that bag of yours. Touch nothing.”  
  
“I haven’t, I won’t,” she whispered. “Will he bring me to you?”  
  
There was the sound of fast typing and Jim’s voice grew distant, as though she were on speaker. “No, not safe until I’ve checked everything. Hang up now, Elizabeth, I need to get someone to you.”  
  
“All right,” she said, and ended the call. The dead silence that followed made her want to throw up or cry. Slowly, she picked up the other phone from the ground, stuffed it into her bag, and walked across her ruined flat. Her legs were wobbly as she descended into the studio and then back upstairs to the street.  
  
Night hadn’t even fallen completely, yet. She was afraid to stand too close to the door and be seen, so instead she went down into the basement again and walked up and down the glossy floors of the darkened dance studio, her heart hammering, her eyes on the lit squares over the floor on the opposite side of the room, from the window in the door to the street. To keep herself calm while she walked and listened, she dug deep into her bag and with fumbling fingers lit a cigarette, praying the smoke wouldn’t set off the fire alarm.  
  
What the hell kind of mess did you get yourself into, Elizabeth? she thought numbly.  
  
A door banged open above her, and hidden in the darkness of the basement, Elle froze mid-pace. Had it been five minutes? Fifteen? She had no idea, but Jim had said nothing about the driver actually coming inside. She slunk back further into the shadows, almost behind the curtain where the girls changed clothes.  
One last time, she dipped her hand silently into her bag.  
  
*~*~*  
  
Jim descended the steps quickly. She’d better not have touched anything upstairs, where they could have easily stashed bugs, traps, explosives, anything in the wreckage. But Elle herself should be speeding away from here by now. He cast half a glance around the dark ballet studio and paused, sure he’d seen something.  
  
Sebastian had already done a sweep of the area and there were no suspicious vehicles, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t hiding out down here, waiting for someone to return for them.  
  
Cold rage filled his blood, and without another thought as to what might be upstairs he strode forward towards what he saw now was a tiny light, which went out almost immediately after his first step but which had already betrayed the smoker.  
  
“You might as well finish it,” Jim called. Silence.  
  
Oh, good. Someone smart enough not to shoot on sight (impossible to see a target in here but the ricochet off the mirrors might have killed one of them anyway) but scared enough to keep quiet. Jim ran through the possibilities quickly: hired gun with a clear target, ill-trained informant, even-worse-trained spy.  
  
He pressed into the corner where the light had been. “Do I really have to tell you to come out? You’re going to die by the end of this, anyway.”  
  
There was a movement. He lunged forward blindly and immediately caught an arm in his hand, an arm much smaller than expected. He yanked them back ten paces, into the half light by the mirrors.  
  
Elle stared up at him with huge eyes, panting, struggling to free her arm from his tight grip. When she saw his face she froze, her lips parted, her breaths quick.  
  
“Well! Hello,” he said, but didn’t let go. He was too entranced by the wild, animal fear on her face, the silent struggle for her arm. Had the flat’s turnover been so bad, or was she really so afraid of her family that her fear resulted in this?  
  
“Did you do it?” she breathed.  
  
“Do what?”  
  
Jim felt a sudden sharp pressure at his jugular and had to tilt back his head in order to avoid being slit open. Fuck. The brat still had his knife. And knew how to use it, apparently.  
  
“Did you stage the flat?” she asked quietly, with astounding calmness. The grip on the knife was trembling. “Did you tell someone to do it when you called me to that building where you don’t really live?”  
  
Jim’s jaw worked. “No,” he said in a low voice.  
  
The knife dug deeper, and Elle’s voice broke. He wondered idly what her face looked like when she cried. “How do I know that? How do I know who’s really been here? What if you just wanted me to accept your offer and this is your way of scaring me into it?”  
  
“You can’t know that,” curtly. “But I have enough on you already without having to resort to actual terrorism. I may not be a patient man, but I’m not a stupid one. I know Mycroft watches his people. You could have just as easily called him to come to you. But you didn’t. You called me.”  
  
The sound of Elle’s quick, anguished breathing rang through the silence a few moments. Then the knife fell away and she stepped back. His arm shot out and then her head collided with the mirror with a dull thud, his fingers around her throat. Her nails scrabbled at his hand.  
  
Carefully, calmly, he pulled a pistol from his jacket and pressed the muzzle securely underneath her jaw, in the soft muscle of her neck. She felt or could see enough to tell what it was and froze solid. He could see her eyes glowing. She began to tremble again, frenetic with suppressed energy.  
  
_Careful_ , he told himself sharply, _careful_.  
  
“So we’re clear: if you _ever_ ,” he murmured, “Pull an unsolicited knife on me again with the intent to use it, I will terminate your employment by force-feeding you a bullet. Understood, doll?”  
  
Still trembling, she nodded, a bit dazed-looking. Perhaps her head had hit the mirror too hard. After a moment, she whispered, “Yes,” and then, with a shaking sort of smile he could just see, she added, “Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Strangled sigh.* I wouldn’t blame you for pulling an unsolicited knife on me, m’dears, for delaying this chapter so long. But speaking of long, this one clocks in at over 13k words, so I hope that appeases anyone who has waited to read on! 
> 
> A sincere thank you for everyone who has taken a moment to review, or send a message with a comment or question (I love those). I honestly might have dropped this story long ago had it not been for your encouragement and enthusiasm. For context: I started this story my first year of college (okay fine, university). I am now in my second year of post-graduate work, and while I’ve grown as a writer, my adoration for this story and for all of you remains at full volume!
> 
> Off to write chapter 14,  
> xo, A


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